THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF 
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 



THE LIFE AND LETTERS 

OF 

CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

it 

BY HIS DAUGHTER 

LEONOKA CRANCH SCOTT 

With Illustrations 




BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 

(Cfce ttitoerjiibe pre?? Cambribge 

1917 



t6 ' ■ < 



COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY LEONORA CRANCH SCOTT 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



Published March iqiy 



3. So 



MAR 20 191? 

©CLA455955 



PREFACE 

When my father knew that he could not live, he 
directed me to send, after his death, his published 
and unpublished works to Mr. George William 
Curtis. I did this, and Mr. Curtis, although a very- 
busy man, looked carefully into the manuscripts 
sent to him, having also the assistance and judgment 
of a collaborates. He decided that further publica- 
tion would add nothing to the fame of his friend. 

It was not until some time after that the plan of a 
volume of letters, connected by his own words from 
an autobiography, was decided upon, having its in- 
ception in his own wish, perhaps, to be better known 
to that public who already knew something of him 
through his published volumes and poems in the 
current literature of the day. 

In this Life and Letters I have tried to give an im- 
pression of the man and his charm to his friends, and 
to show the many sides of his artistic, literary genius. 
As an seolian harp vibrates to the winds of heaven 
in melodies, joyful, tender, or sad, so Cranch's music 
varied with his mood. Blows it east? It brings forth 
martial strains. Or south? It sings of the sea, the 
woods, and the birds. West? Cadenzas of sweet 
fancy and rollicking mirth play upon its strings. 
While the north wind brings out clear, philosophic 
thought, deep and incisive. 

At the instigation of his son-in-law, Colonel H. B. 
Scott, Mr. Cranch wrote his Autobiography for his 
"children and grandchildren, — or for any relatives 



vi PREFACE 

or intimate friends of the family who may wish to 
know something of the continuous thread of my 
life." It was thought best not to publish this as a 
whole, but to make extracts from it. A man does not 
see himself at his best; cannot therefore do full jus- 
tice to himself in an autobiography. His diaries, 
letters, fleeting poems, tell the tale with a spon- 
taneity free from self -consciousness. 

These extracts from Mr. Cranch's diaries tell of 
the days in the ministry; the change from the 
ministry to the artist life; his marriage, and going 
to Europe with George William Curtis; then life 
abroad as an artist; the meeting with men of letters 
and brother artists; the return home and life in New 
York and Cambridge; a second trip to Europe, with 
wife and three children; the Cambridge home and 
surroundings, philosophical talks in a schoolhouse 
and Sunday religious meetings; the migrations to 
New York, and the peaceful end of a most happy 
life in his own home in Ellery Street, Cambridge. 

There is wound in and out of these annals the 
continuous thread of the development of his poetical 
faculty, the strongest voice of many voices that 
called to him. My father's letters and those to him 
from Emerson, Lowell, Curtis, the Brownings, and 
others speak for themselves. I also quote from a 
Memoir of Judge Cranch, his father, which he was 
asked to write, — with the permission of the New 
England Historic-Genealogical Society. 

Some one has said, "No man is a hero to his 
valet." Mr. Cranch was a hero in his own house- 
hold. To his cook, his grocer, his plumber, — to his 
children. I remember when we were leaving Paris 
in 1863, how good old French Elisa, the housemaid 



PREFACE vii 

or bonne, embraced my father with tears streaming 
down her cheeks. He was to her, and to us, the em- 
bodiment of unselfishness, of patience, of loving- 
kindness, ever living up to his ideals, which were 
high. 

I have endeavored, even with all my love for my 
father, to see him as a man, a poet, an artist, as he 
appeared to the outside world of men and women of 
his day. If I have done this only partially, I shall be 
well repaid for my labor. 

L. C. S. 



CONTENTS 

I. Ancestry and Early Recollections .... 3 
II. Student and Preacher 18 

III. Western Experiences 31 

IV. Transcendentalism — Emerson Correspond- 

ence 49 

V. Painting — Marriage 66 

VI. First Visit to Europe — The Voyage — Rome . 93 

VII. Palestrina — Olevano — Second Roman 

Winter 119 

VIII. Naples — Sorrento 136 

IX. Florence and the Brownings 150 

X. New York 172 

XI. Ten Years in Europe 200 

XII. New York 254 

XIII. Cambridge 278 

XIV. Third Visit to Europe 306 

XV. Cambridge Study — Last Years 338 

Index 387 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

Christopher Pearse Cranch . . Photogravure frontispiece v 
From a portrait by his daughter Caroline Amelia Cranch 

Nancy Greenleap 6 ' 

William Cranch as a Young Man 6 

Nancy Greenleaf Cranch (Mrs. Christopher P. 
Cranch) 16 

From a pencil sketch by John Cranch 

An Emersonian Caricature 40 

Caricature of "The Dial" 60 ' 

Mrs. Christopher Pearse Cranch ....... 72 

Pencil sketch by F. O. C. Darley 

Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1843 80 

Pencil sketch by William Wetmore Story 

Sketch from the Stern Windows of the Nebraska, 
1846 94 

Christopher Pearse Cranch 96 

Pencil sketch by William Wetmore Story 

The Curtis Brothers (George William and Burrill) 112 

From a painting by Thomas Hicks 

/ 
Bayard Taylor, 1864 188 

Judge William Cranch 216 

Madame V.'s Looking-Glass 226 

Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1859 238 

From a photograph taken in Rome 

Christopher Pearse Cranch, 1878 292 

John Weiss 300 v 



xii ILLUSTRATIONS 

Geoege William Curtis 308 

From an oil sketch by Caroline Amelia Cranch 

"Miles of Stumpy Trees" 323 

Francis Boott 326 

Drawing for a Book of Rhymes 346 

Sketch of Devils 346 

George William Curtis , 370 

From a photograph 

"The Grasshopper is a Burden" 380 



THE LIFE AND LETTERS OP 
CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 



CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 



CHAPTER I 

ANCESTRY AND EARLY RECOLLECTIONS 

Christopher Pearse Cranch was born in Alexan- 
dria, District of Columbia (now in Virginia), March 
8, 1813, the youngest son in a family of thirteen 
children. In his Autobiography he says: — 

My first recollections date from the house in Washing- 
ton Street, when I was about four or five years old. I was 
taught to read by my sister Nancy. When she was eight 
or nine years of age, she died. Every one loved her. 
About this time my sister Mary also died. She had been 
married to her cousin Richard Norton about a year, and 
died soon after confinement, with a daughter, who also 
died. About a year later Mr. Norton died, from some 
virulent fever badly treated by an ignorant physician. 
The deaths of these two elder sisters were my first great 
griefs, and made a deep impression on me. . . . 

At this time I was sent to a large day school kept by 
a man named Bonner. He was a great tyrant, and was 
noted for devising all sorts of strange, and sometimes 
cruel, punishments for the boys. 

While occupying our house in Washington Street, our 
family used to pass the summer on a farm in Virginia, 
about four miles to the southwest, which went by the 
name of " Suffield." The house was a small, plain, wooden 
farmhouse. The farm, if I remember, consisted of very 
poor, clayey land. My brother Richard was the farmer. 



4 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

We raised vegetables, rye, wheat, oats, etc. I remember 
no cultivated fruit on the place but small apples. There 
were plenty of fine wild blackberries, and I think some 
huckleberries. We had two or three farm-horses, and 
among my early recollections were the excursions I used 
to make, with my brothers John and Edward, — one six, 
the other four years older than myself, — to the apple 
trees, where we gathered the apples in bags, and brought 
them home on horseback. 

We boys used to go about, barefooted, a great part of 
the summer. Our faithful companion everywhere was our 
dog Watch. He was a beautiful, white dog, with a fine 
head, and handsome brown eyes, soft and curly hair, and 
a splendid, bushy tail. He seemed to be a mixture of the 
setter and the Newfoundland. He was the most honest, 
the most affectionate, the most playful, the most brave, 
the most faithful creature that ever honored the canine 
race. He was just the age of my sister Abby, and lived 
with us seventeen years, dying at last of old age, long 
after we removed to Washington. 

Our family at this time consisted of my father and 
mother, my brothers William, Richard, John, and Ed- 
ward, our sister Elizabeth, about eight years older than 
I, — myself, and two younger sisters, Abby and Mar- 
garet. 

In 1823 we moved to another part of Alexandria, which 
went by the name of the "Village." The house was a 
large and pretty frame dwelling, in the southern suburbs 
of the town, not far from Hunting Creek, a branch of the 
Potomac River. On the southern side of the house was a 
veranda of two stories, overlooking a yard with a semi- 
circle of tall Lombardy poplars, a well of water, and a 
large garden with an abundance of fruit and flowers. 
The roses were particularly plentiful and fine. In the 



ANCESTRY 5 

centre of this garden was a large summer arbor, with 
seats, and covered with multiflora roses. We had straw- 
berries, gooseberries, cherries, damsons, peaches, and 
fine winter pippins. At the bottom of the garden was a 
small building used by my father as a library and law- 
office. It was here that my brother Edward and I used to 
copy the pictures in India ink out of Rees's Cyclopaedia. 
On the left of the garden was a barnyard and stable. 
From the upper story of the veranda there was a fine 
view of the majestic Potomac, and the sails constantly 
gliding up and down the river. It was a beautiful place, 
and to this day it mingles with my dreams. But the situ- 
ation was not healthy, all that region near the Creek 
being subject to fever and ague, at which I took my turn 
along with the others. 

A third severe family bereavement was the death 
of his brother Richard, who was drowned while 
making a topographical survey on Lake Erie, near 
Meadville. Of it the Autobiography says : — 

The party were on the Lake when there came up a 
sudden squall. The boat was capsized and my brother, 
though a good swimmer, was drowned before he could 
reach the shore. ... I was then twelve years old. Our 
brother was about twenty-five. ... I never shall forget 
what a dark day that was, when the tidings of this event 
reached us. I can well remember how all the family were 
plunged into grief and tears. I can see even now, my 
uncle James Greenleaf (then making us a visit) sitting in 
silence, with one arm around each of my younger sisters. 
We all loved our brother Richard dearly. Our father and 
mother looked upon him with just pride in his noble and 
manly qualities. He was the strongest and most active 
of the family. I remember seeing him lift three fifty- 



6 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

six-pound weights with his little finger. He was a good 
swimmer and skater. He was fond of agriculture; he 
had a great deal of mechanical talent and used to con- 
struct little machines of various sorts. I remember his 
making some sky-rockets and shooting them off. He was 
affectionate and upright and a great favorite wherever he 
was known. . . . He would take us with him to Washing- 
ton — six or seven miles off — to see the Inauguration 
of John Quincy Adams as President, in the Capitol. 

I shall always remember this pleasant house at the 
Village as the happy suburban home, where, in spite of 
these domestic sorrows, we children found such ample 
scope for play, such delight in our beautiful garden, such 
amusement with the dogs, the chickens, the ducks, the 
hayloft, and the rural surroundings. 

It was there I first began to amuse myself with draw- 
ing, and in learning to play on the flute. And it was there 
that I attempted my first versification, a paraphrase 
from Ossian. 

My father was tall and erect, with marked features, 
and was sometimes taken for General Andrew Jackson, 
but there was no real resemblance. He was serious and 
somewhat taciturn; of a quiet temperament; inclined to 
melancholy; but serene and self-contained, with a mild 
and sweet expression on his face, much aided by his 
steadfast, religious faith. He was devotedly fond of chil- 
dren, and was like the still water that runs deep, in his 
warm sympathy and affection. He was a conscientious 
and hard worker; was subject to headaches, but usually 
enjoyed good health, and died at the ripe old age of 
eighty-six, having been fifty years on the bench of the 
District Court. Between him and my mother there was 
always a devoted attachment. My mother's tempera- 
ment was more cheerful and hopeful than his. From my 




< 

g 
g 




ANCESTRY 7 

father we children stood somewhat at a distance in our 
lighter talk and laughter. But our mother was full of 
fun, and we never stood in the least awe of her. We con- 
fided to her all our joys and sorrows. She must have been 
quite pretty when young, and I think my father might 
have been considered handsome. 

My mother was very industrious and regular, and a 
good housekeeper. Both our parents were early risers. 
My father, from my earliest recollection, held family 
prayers, reading from the Episcopal Prayer-Book, al- 
though he was a Unitarian, while we all kneeled. We 
were all expected to attend church regularly. A trace of 
Puritanic tradition may have been seen here and there. 
Sunday was strictly kept, and there never was any card- 
playing. W T hist was a game I learned some time after I 
began preaching, and played it on Saturday nights. The 
only games we knew in the house were chess, backgam- 
mon, and checkers. My father was fond of chess, but 
despised backgammon as a game of chance; while my 
uncle James Greenleaf , who spent almost all his evenings 
with us, was devoted to this rattling game. I don't think 
my mother ever played at any game. She was usually too 
busy sewing or darning stockings, or attending to the 
various duties of housekeeping. 

In Mr. Cranch's memoir of his father, written for 
the New England Historic-Genealogical Society, he 
says : — 

It is fitting that I should trace something of the honor- 
able genealogy of the subject of this memoir. The blood 
and the principles of Puritan ancestors were in him by 
pure descent. On the paternal side they were all English- 
men. His great-great-grandfather, Richard Cranch, the 
first of his name of whom anything is known, was said to 



8 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

have been a rigid and uncompromising Puritan. His 
great-grandfather, Andrew Cranch, carried on the busi- 
ness of serge-making, largely, in the town of Kingsbridge, 
Devonshire, where were born his son John, and John's 
son Richard, the father of William [Christopher's father]. 
These ancestors were all men of worthy character. In 
religion they were dissenters. 

Of the Honorable Richard Cranch, my grandfather, a 
brief account must here be given. He was born in 1726, in 
Kingsbridge, Devonshire, came to America in 1746, at 
the age of twenty, and settled in the old towns of Brain- 
tree, Quincy, and Randolph. He was a watchmaker, and 
for some years pursued this business in Braintree. He 
was also postmaster of the town, held a seat for a number 
of years as representative in the General Court, and af- 
terwards as senator of the Commonwealth of Massachu- 
setts. He was also for some years one of the judges of the 
Court of Common Pleas. Though self-educated, he was a 
scholar of wide attainments, and was especially learned 
in theology. He was the intimate friend of John Adams, 
and of the Reverend Doctor Mayhew, and the associate 
of several distinguished men of his time. He is frequently 
spoken of with affection and respect in John Adams's 
Diary. In one place, Mr. Adams says: "Was there ever a 
wit who had much humanity and compassion, much ten- 
derness of nature? . . . Mr. Cranch has wit and is tender 
and gentle." In another place he speaks of Mr. Cranch's 
"mathematical, metaphysical, mechanical, systematical 
head." And again he mentions him as "the friend of my 
youth, as well as of my riper years, whose tender heart 
sympathizes with his fellow creatures in every affliction 
and distress." '0 

He was an ardent patriot during the Revolution. In 
1780 he received the honorary degree of A.M. from 



ANCESTRY 9 

Harvard College. He was tall, grave, and dignified; and 
in his features is said to have borne a remarkable resem- 
blance to the portraits of John Locke, the philosopher. 

In 1762 Richard Cranch was married to Mary Smith, 
elder daughter of the Reverend William Smith, of Wey- 
mouth, Massachusetts, whose other daughter, Abigail, 
afterwards married John Adams. 

To Richard and Mary Cranch were born three 
children, — Elizabeth, who married the Reverend 
Jacob Norton; Lucy, who married her cousin, Mr. 
John Greenleaf ; and William, their only son. 

Judge Richard Cranch and his wife lived chiefly 
in Quincy, and died there at advanced ages, within 
a day of each other, in October, 1811. This was 
in the old Cranch and Greenleaf homestead, a plain, 
large, frame house with an avenue of fine elms in 
front of it, kept up in the family for three genera- 
tions as the old Greenleaf home. 

William Cranch was born in Weymouth, in 1769. 
His education seems to have been entirely at home 
under his mother's tuition and superintendence, 
until he was put under the charge of his uncle, the 
Reverend John Shaw, of Haverhill, to be fitted by 
him for college. In 1784 he entered the Freshman 
class at Harvard. His friend and cousin, John 
Quincy Adams, was his classmate. 

A little letter from William at Harvard in his 
eighteenth year, to his father, bears witness to his 
studies: — 

Hond. Sir: — ^ 

I intended to have walked to Boston to-day, but hav- 
ing an invitation to dine at Mrs. Forbes', I determined to 
postpone it. If you could spare me a little money and 



10 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

send it by my chum, who will bring you this, I should be 
exceedingly obliged. If it is not convenient, Sir, I beg you 
would not send it, for I am in no immediate want of it. 
I fear, Sir, you think my demands too frequent. If it were 
in my power to make them less so, I should certainly do it. 

There is an Exhibition appointed for some time in next 
month. There will be a Latin oration, by whom is not yet 
determined, a forensic, a conference upon Law, Physic, 
and Divinity, by J. Q. Adams, Moses Little, and Nathan- 
iel Freeman, and an English oration by Bosenger Foster. 
A Syllogistic Disputation, a Greek oration, a Hebrew 
oration, and a Dialogue. The Corporation have met, 
but have not yet determined about the Commencement. 
If they do not grant our request, we shall petition to the 
Board of Overseers. 

With every sentiment of duty and affection, believe 
me your 

Obedient son, 

W. Cranch. 
Thursday Morning, 

Richard Cranch, Esq. 

In the memoir of his father, just quoted Mr. 
Cranch, says : — 

The life of a judge, however eminent and however well 
appreciated and honored by the members of the legal pro- 
fession, is not one which usually makes a glittering show 
to the public eye. How little is known, outside the courts 
and law-offices, of the learning, the intellectual grasp, the 
patience, the industry, the conscience, the courage, the 
clear, calm power of detecting principles amid the tedious 
detail of facts and precedents, and of thoroughly winnow- 
ing truth from error, which are required in this profes- 
sion! Such acquirements and qualities make little noise 



ANCESTRY 11 

in the world; but like the silent forces of nature, they are 
none the less effective and beneficent. 

The Honorable William Cranch, LL.D., Chief Judge of 
the United States Circuit Court of the District of Colum- 
bia, is a name well known among lawyers and jurists, 
through his Reports of the Supreme Court, and the cases 
in his own court for forty years; and especially dis- 
tinguished in the district, where, for over forty years of 
his life, he held his office, and resided, and where he died, 
full of years and honors. But apart from his legal and 
judiciary connections, he lived a comparatively retired 
life, uncheckered by any remarkable events. He was one 
of that noble fraternity of quiet thinkers and workers, of 
all times and professions, who are content to do their 
duty thoroughly and well, careless of the shining honors 
of fame; or else who fail to achieve those honors, because 
by temperament too unambitious to grasp them, or from 
love of their work, and conscientiousness in the discharge 
of it, too devoted to their daily tasks to weigh their la- 
bors against their deserts, to consecrate their days to 
some useful but unapplauded sphere of life. 

In 1787 William Cranch graduated with honors; and 
the same year commenced the study of law in Boston, 
with the Honorable Thomas Dawes, one of the judges of 
the Supreme Court of Massachusetts. ... In 1790 he was 
admitted to practice law in the Court of Common Pleas, 
at the age of twenty-one. He began practice in Braintree, 
but afterwards removed to Haverhill, where he boarded 
in Mr. Shaw's family, and attended the courts in Essex 
County, and at Exeter, Portsmouth, and other places in 
New Hampshire. In 1793 he was admitted to practice 
in the Supreme Court. 

His prospects now encouraged him to make preparation 
for domestic life in Washington; and on April 6, 1795, he 



12 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

was married in Boston to Miss Ann (Nancy) Greenleaf , 
the youngest daughter, in a large family, of William 
Greenleaf, Esq., merchant of Boston, who had been, 
during the Revolutionary War, high sheriff of Suffolk 
County, including Boston. She was the sister of Mr. 
James Greenleaf, also of Mrs. Judge Dawes and of Mrs. 
Noah Webster. Returning early in the summer to Wash- 
ington with my mother, he commenced housekeeping 
under happy auspices, and worked diligently. . . . 

Two years later he received a proposal from Mr. 
Noah Webster, that they should together undertake a 
daily paper in Boston, . . . and that my father should be 
the editor. In this proposal he held out inducements that 
seemed promising. The temptation to return to Boston 
and the vicinity of his family and friends was, for a little 
while, very strong; but on mature consideration, and with 
advice of competent persons, he concluded to abandon 
the idea, and determined to remain in Washington and 
pursue the practice of law. His father, with whom he 
corresponded on all matters of moment, concurred in his 
determination, though it would have been an inexpressi- 
ble pleasure and comfort to have his son, to whom he was 
so tenderly attached, near him again in his declining 
years. . . . 

Notwithstanding many temporary discouragements he 
steadily applied himself to his business, and soon had the 
satisfaction of gaining two cases in Annapolis. The same 
year he was appointed, by President Adams, one of the 
commissioners of public buildings, upon the recommenda- 
tion of the largest part of the proprietors of the city, with 
a salary of sixteen hundred dollars. "But how long the 
office will continue," he writes, "is uncertain." He adds: 
"The only subject of regret which the circumstance sug- 
gests is, that it will call forth the calumnies of malevo- 



ANCESTRY 13 

lence upon the President. But it will be remembered that 
President Washington appointed Mrs. Washington's 
son-in-law, Dr. Stuart, to the same office, — so that a 
precedent is not wanting." 

In 1801 Mr. William Cranch was appointed by 
the President, John Adams, Assistant Judge of the 
newly constituted Circuit Court of the District of 
Columbia; William Kilty being Chief Judge, and 
James Marshall (brother of the celebrated Chief 
Justice Marshall of the Supreme Court) the other 
Assistant Judge. In 1805, very much to his surprise, 
— for he was a warm Federalist in his politics, — 
Judge Cranch was appointed by Mr. Jefferson to 
the office of Chief Judge of the Circuit Court, at a 
salary of twenty-five hundred dollars. His labors 
in the office were, through the whole of his long 
judicial life, exceedingly arduous. On August 15, 
1806, he apologizes for not having written to his 
father, by stating that he had just finished a ses- 
sion of five weeks at Alexandria, and that since 
the fourth Monday of November last he had been 
twenty-nine weeks in court. 

In 1829 the degree of LL.D. was conferred 
upon him by Harvard College, — a long-deserved 
and too-long-deferred honor. He was admitted an 
honorary member of the New England Historic- 
Genealogical Society, March 15, 1847. In 1852 he 
published in six volumes his "Reports, Civil and 
Criminal, in the Circuit Court of the District of 
Columbia," covering forty years — from 1801 to 
1841. His son says: — 

Nature seems to have intended William Cranch for a 
judge. .His patience and perseverance were only matched 



x 



14 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

by his love of clearness and order. He would take pleas- 
ure in unraveling a snarl of string and untying hard knots. 
He had a mechanical turn, and liked to take his old fam- 
ily clock to pieces, to be oiled and cleaned, and put to- 
gether again. While in college he devoted a good deal of 
time to mathematical problems, and even went so far as 
to calculate an eclipse. These qualities, combined with 
his sensitive musical ear, would sometimes lead him to 
spend, on a day of leisure, a morning in tuning his piano 
or parlor organ, in a very thorough and methodical way. 
These characteristic traits, in union with the higher ones 
of thoroughness and exactness of knowledge, of con- 
scientious and discriminating judgment in difficult cases, 
of singular ability to see the main facts and authority, 
and to detect always the principle and spirit of the law, 
made him, by nature and by long training, a judge whose 
decisions have always held a deserved reputation for 
soundness. The best proof of this is, that during more 
than fifty years of service on the bench, it is well known 
that not one of his decisions was reversed by the Supreme 
Court. 

He was a hard and steady worker. He rose early, often 
being up before sunrise in the winter; and when not on 
the bench, he was usually engaged at work in his office, 
frequently until near midnight. . . . He liked to read the 
best English classics. Shakespeare and Milton were 
especial favorites with him. He seldom read a novel. 
But he had a keen relish for poetry, old and new. His 
enthusiastic love of the beautiful in nature and in art, 
was a marked trait. He delighted in pictures, in sculp- 
ture, in flowers, and fine sunsets. But his chief recrea- 
tion was music. He played on the organ and the flute. 
The latter instrument he abandoned in his old age, and 
devoted himself to his parlor organ, on which he played 



ANCESTRY 15 

chiefly sacred music, and in which he took the deepest 
delight. 

His temperament was tranquil, grave, and serious. He 
would often smile, but seldom laughed aloud. He seldom 
joked, but he relished a good joke from others. His de- 
meanor was courteous and dignified. He was a gentleman 
of the old school. He never hesitated to carry home his 
own loaded basket from the market; and sometimes he 
would assist some poor old woman on the road in carrying 
hers. He liked to split his own wood and make his own 
fire; and in sight of all his neighbors would mend his own 
pump, or his gate, or his garden fence. His heart was as 
tender as a woman's. His domestic affections were deep. 
Nothing could exceed his love as an affectionate husband 
and father. The natural kindness of his disposition ex- 
tended itself to his friends, neighbors, relatives, and even 
strangers, and would often take the form of an utterly 
unprecedented hospitality, even when his domestic cir- 
cumstances obliged the greatest domestic economy. . . . 
This almost feminine sympathy never interfered with 
the just decisions to which his duties so often called him. 
His sense of justice was strong, and though tempered by 
clemency, never wavered from its upright attitude. 

His character was genuinely and deeply religious. He 
inherited this trait from his ancestors, and it was culti- 
vated and strengthened through his life. . . . He seldom 
taught by precept, but always by example, that: — 

"Our days should be 
Bound each to each by natural piety." 

My brother Edward writes : " I knew more than any 
other of the children, of father's official life and labors, 
because I studied law for three years in his chambers at 
the City Hall at Washington. I don't believe he ever 



16 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

spent an idle hour in his life. His life was uniform. He 
never dropped out of line to go in search of events. His 
great idea was duty. His recreations were music, chess, 
study, contemplation. He prayed much when alone. He 
repeated old poems to himself in his walks. But for ten 
hours every day for sixty years he was in public and 
working for the public. He was working for the right, 
and antagonizing the wrong; and he kept the waters pure 
about him." 

His conscientious conception of the legitimate func- 
tions of a judge led him to reject all offers of fees for any 
extraneous or supererogatory work, where he would have 
been justified in accepting them. The consequence was 
that he was besieged at all hours, even out of his office, 
by people of all sorts who came to have deeds or other 
law documents acknowledged gratis by him, rather than 
by a lawyer, who would charge them a fee. And I believe 
he never, at any hour of the day, refused a single one of 
these people. 

Judge Cranch, though not an abolitionist, was no 
apologist for slavery. It was an institution abhorrent to 
his nature. But so long as it was sanctioned by constitu- 
tion and law, he was bound not to interfere with the ex- 
isting order of things. Whenever he could befriend a 
slave without violating the laws, he was ever ready to do 
so. He saw that a storm was approaching, but fortu- 
nately for his peace of mind, he was not fated to see 
how, a few years later, it burst upon the country in the 
horrors of civil war. 

In the old Congressional graveyard in Washing- 
ton are buried Judge Cranch and his wife. These 
are the inscriptions on the plain stones: — j 



NANCY GREENLEAF CRA'NCH 

Pencil sketch by John Cranch 



ANCESTRY 17 

William Cranch 

Chief Judge of District of Columbia. 
Born July 17, 1769, died Sept. 1, 1855. 

An able, learned, diligent and upright magistrate: Mild, 
dignified and firm. A tender husband and Father. A faithful 
friend. A benefactor of the poor, and a sincere Christian. 

"Blessed are the pure in heart 
For they shall see God." 

Nancy Cranch 

daughter of William Greenleaf, Esq., late of Boston 
and wife of William Cranch, Chf. J., D. C. 

Born June 5, 1772, died full of the hope of glory, 
Sept. 16, 1849. 

"Valde Deflenda." 



CHAPTER II 

STUDENT AND PREACHER 

In 1829 Christopher Pearse Cranch entered Colum- 
bian College in the third Freshman term. There 
were no athletics in those days, consequently the 
walk of three miles in the outskirts of Washing- 
ton, was both agreeable and salutary. 

My father, in his Autobiography, says: — 

The president was a Baptist minister, Dr. Chapin, a 
most excellent man. There was but a small number of 
students, and the course of study was not particularly 
extensive or thorough. My brothers, John and Edward, 
had graduated there. My father wished me to have a 
college education, but his means did not permit the ex- 
pense of sending me to an institution away from home. 
There I remained till 1832, when at the age of nineteen 
I took my degree. 

As I lived near the Capitol, I went often to hear the 
great speakers in the Senate and House of Representa- 
tives. I remember hearing speeches from John Randolph, 
Clay, Webster, John Quincy Adams, Benton, Calhoun, 
and others. I had the good fortune to hear a great por- 
tion of Mr. Webster's famous reply to Mr. Hayne. I was 
very much impressed with Webster's eloquence. 

After leaving college the question was, what profession 
to adopt. My father seemed to think I ought to choose 
one of the three learned professions. For the law, I had 
no taste or ability. And my brother Edward was study- 
ing law at my father's desire; one lawyer was enough. 
For a while I thought of medicine, but not very seriously. 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 19 

My cousin William G. Eliot, Jr., 1 who afterwards mar- 
ried my sister Abby, was a divinity student at Cam- 
bridge, and urged me to the study of theology. Of the 
three professions, this was most to my taste; and as it 
accorded with my father's inclination, I decided to go to 
Cambridge and the Theological School. I studied a little 
German with an old Swiss gentleman who taught me a 
very bad pronunciation. 

In the summer of 1832, 1 left home for Cambridge. . . . 
At this time my brother John was in Italy studying art. 
My brother Edward had gone to Cincinnati to practice 
law. I took a room in Divinity Hall, Cambridge, and be- 
gan my studies with a good deal of interest. [His class- 
mates were:] C. A. Bartol, Charles T. Brooks, Edgar 
Buckingham, A, M. Bridge, A. Frost, Samuel Osgood, 
John Parkman, H. G. O. Phipps, George Rice, and J. 
Thurston. . . . 

Sunday, June 16, 1833, my father got up at half- 
past four, and having made arrangements with a 
brother minister to take his Sunday-School class, 
went to the Charlestown bridge to meet his cousin 
Richard Greenleaf in a gig, and ride out to Quincy 
to meet his father, Judge Cranch, and his mother, 
who were making a visit to New England, where 
they had not been for thirty years. 

In his journal he says: "A fine view from the top 
of the hill. . . . Found them at breakfast at Quincy. 
Father was there and looks very well." After dinner 
at Uncle Daniel Greenleaf's and the afternoon ser- 
vice, the second Church service, to which he had 
gone". . . walked with father across the Quincy hills. 
He pointed out to me his father's grounds, where 
1 Dr. William Greenleaf Eliot, of St. Louis, Missouri. 



20 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

the house, garden, etc., were. It was extremely in- 
teresting to be on the very spot, the very scenes of his 
boyish days with him, after so long an absence from 
them. Met J. Q. Adams in our walk. It was a fine 
afternoon and we had a noble view of the harbor." 

Mr. Cranch's days were spent thus at this date. 
Up at half-past five, sometimes an hour earlier, 
studied Hebrew, attended prayers, walked to break- 
fast, pitched quoits, studied and read, attended 
Dr. Ware's exercise on the "Resurrection of Christ," 
recited Hebrew, had tea, and passed the evening 
in a friend's room singing, or in social converse. 
Once a week they had practising of elocution, which 
they called "explosions." Some of the students held 
a Sunday-School class in the State Prison, where 
they found some interesting men. The atmosphere 
was religious and prayerful, and my father earnestly 
strove to work conscientiously. His great diffidence 
kept him from doing justice to himself. He could 
always do better with his pen than in extempora- 
neous speech. But he nevertheless persisted. 

There were many fine preachers who came to them, 
and the studious life suited his temperament. Or- 
ville Dewey, Henry W. Bellows, William Henry 
Channing, Ezra Stiles Gannett, James Freeman 
Clarke, Theodore Parker, and others spoke to them. 
And these were memorable occasions. 

My father's good friend, John S. Dwight, was in 
his class for a year; going to Meadville, Pennsyl- 
vania, returning again later to Harvard. He was 
therefore in the class after Mr. Cranch, where also 
was Theodore Parker. The instructors were Dr. 
Henry Ware, Sr., Dr. Henry Ware, Jr., and Dr. 
John G. Palfrey. 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 21 

Mr. Cranch went home to Washington in sum- 
mer vacations, but spent some time in Boston where 
he had relatives, and a good deal of time in the home 
of his grandfather, Richard Cranch, and of his 
uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. John Greenleaf, in 
Quincy. Their daughter Mary, Mrs. George Minot 
Dawes, was like a sister, and nursed him one sum- 
mer in the old Greenleaf and Cranch homestead, 
very devotedly. This cousinly friendship was kept 
up all through their lives, and was a source of great 
pleasure to both. 

In the summer of 1835, Mr. Cranch graduated 
from the Divinity School, and entered at once upon 
the duties of preaching, at the age of twenty-two. 
Among the first churches in which he preached was 
Reverend Doctor Farley's, in Providence, Rhode 
Island, a large church "which frightened me not a 
little," he said. 

In the winter of 1836 — an unusually cold one — 
Mr. Cranch was persuaded to go down to Andover, 
Maine. This was a hard place, but missionary work 
was much needed. He spent some weeks there, 
preaching in a small schoolhouse or in a half -fin- 
ished meeting-house. A tremendous snowstorm 
set in, keeping people in their houses. A letter to 
his friend John S. Dwight describes his feelings: — 

Andover, Maine, February 9, 1836. 
If you have a spark of sympathy and kindness in you, 
you will commiserate me. Will you have the kindness 
to put up the following note for me at some Christian 
church in the civilized country I have left: "A man abid- 
ing in the wilderness desires the prayers of his friends for 
his liberation and return." Here am I, a tropical animal, 



22 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

as it were, thrown by some convulsion of the earth into 
the middle of an iceberg. Some ages hence I shall, perad- 
venture, be discovered and be looked upon by the learned 
doctors as a rare specimen of a departed race of animals. 
What! is there nothing but snowstorms and snowbanks 
extant? Has the earth taken wings and left behind noth- 
ing but rugged mountains, endless pine forests and 
stumps! It would doubtless seem so to you were you in 
my situation, for I need take but a very few steps out 
of doors, to be a companion unto bears, wolves, and 
moose. In short I am mewed up in this ultima thule 
of civilization against my will, by reason of these vile 
and rough roads. It seems as if the elements had com- 
bined to keep me here. All passing almost is impracti- 
cable. I can't even stir out of doors. There is a regular 
siege and blockade carried on by wind and snow against 
the town. I am like Hildebrand shut in by Kuhlborn and 
the water spirits, and the white old man nods and whis- 
tles in every snowbank; but alas, there are no Undines in 
this land of desolation to help me to beguile the lin- 
gering hours. But if I am a prisoner bodily, I am deter- 
mined (and this is my resolution) that my thoughts and 
feelings shall have liberty, nay, even that they shall 
take the form of an epistle. O, the cacoethes scribendi, 
is a pleasant passion! ... I have scarcely ever felt the 
mournful gusts of homesickness (why have we no better 
word?) sweep over my soul, as they have during my 
stay here. Were you ever six hundred and sixty miles 
from home? I think you have been. Then you may 
know how distance increases this aching and longing of 
the heart. Even from Boston and Cambridge — my 
adopted home — I am distant one hundred and eighty 
miles. Well, may you never light upon this wilderness 
in the depth of winter, for a very wilderness it is in all 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 23 

respects. I dream day and night of absent friends and 
of home. 

But there are redeeming circumstances about this same 
polar region. As to soil and climate, I say with Justice 
Shallow, "Barren! barren! marry good air!" As to prod- 
ucts I can answer, for one, that they have most bounti- 
ful crops of snow, together with forests and stumps in 
any quantity. Inhabitants and parishioners few and far 
between, to my sorrow. Ignorant, rough and farmer- 
like, but withal good, ordinary, well-disposed folks as 
one could desire, and many good Christians among them; 
but as ignorant of Unitarianism and rational Chris- 
tianity as " 'Ebrew Jews." The good things that I have 
to mention are : the good, in the first place which I think 
my visit here does to myself; next the good — I hope I 
may have done a little — which the people may receive 
from my services; besides the pleasure which I have re- 
ceived in preaching and in talking with the good folks. 
I intended to have visited much among these Andover- 
ites, but the bad driving has prevented. We have had a 
miserable place to preach in — a little box of a meeting- 
house not half finished, and afterwards a miserable little 
schoolhouse, hardly big enough to turn around in, with- 
out any pulpit or desk. I had as lief almost talk in a tin 
cup. Last Sunday was an extra Sabbath beyond my 
engagement, and I preached half a day. Besides regular 
preaching for four Sundays, I have preached and pre- 
pared two-evening-a-week lectures, one of them extem- 
pore, and a temperance address. I have small audiences, 
but very unusually attentive, which is pleasant. I found 
them all entirely ignorant of Unitarianism, but more or 
less disgusted with the orthodox preaching which they 
have had here, and willing and glad to hear something 
more liberal and rational from the pulpit. By far the 



U CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

larger part of the town are anti-orthodox in their feeling. 
As to their theologic notions they are very crude and 
unsettled. I have preached "plain practical" sermons, 
as Br'er Frost would say, and such they like.. Besides, 
controversial discourses can do little good and much 
harm. ... I have not attacked Calvinistic doctrines by 
name, but indirectly; and this I could not avoid, if I 
wished to preach what I believe to be truth. It was 
curious to observe how my sermons were received. Many 
good orthodox people thought I preached sound doctrine, 
and even a good old ultra-Universalist lady was pleased, 
though I urged the doctrine of Retribution frequently 

To John S. Dwight 

Richmond, Va., June 15, 1836. 

I have just returned from the post-office with the glori- 
ous and unexpected haul of three letters, by no means 
a common occurrence in these later times, one from 
William G. Eliot, Jr., one from my brother Edward, and 
last, not least, the delightfully refreshing one from your- 
self. Glorious ! Such a treat as this I have not had for a 
long, long time! Permit me to thank you for yours as 
it deserves. I own I should have written you before, 
but "matters and things" you know. But your kind 
epistle has done me infinite good. I can feel with you, 
as you describe your feelings in the pulpit. It is a throne, 
and you can hardly conceive the uplifting sensations 
that sometimes rush through one, when one mounts it 
as a spiritual leader, and stretches forth over his audi- 
ence his invisible sceptre of thought and feeling. I 
realize every time I preach, more and more, the impor- 
tance and the glory of the preacher's office. O for one 
of those voices to sing for me the hymns I give out! I 
miss the old music of New England exceedingly. 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 25 

But now methinks you are anxiously looking down 
this scrawl, to learn when, why, and how, I got me into 
this out-of-the-way place. For by your direction I per- 
ceive you are not acquainted with my localities. I will 
answer you briefly.' I have been here nearly four weeks; 
came not exactly as a candidate, though they seem dis- 
posed to hold me. They do want a settled minister here 
most confoundedly — to use a lay-phrase. 

They want doctrinal and controversial preaching here, 
as they do in almost all "new places." The Virginians 
will not read and inquire for themselves. A tract or 
treatise on theology or religion is an abomination unto 
them. They depend very much on what they hear from 
the pulpit, but more persons depend entirely upon hear- 
say. I gave them a pretty direct talk about this matter, 
from the text, "Let every man be fully persuaded in 
his own mind," in the conclusion of which I told them 
they must not depend upon what they hear of our views, 
from the mouths of ignorant, prejudiced opponents, or 
what they hear from the pulpit, for the pulpit, though 
the altar of truth, is not the arena of controversy, but 
that they must read, think, and inquire. I felt gloriously 
while delivering this sermon. It was glorious to arrest 
the attention of a passer-by, or a door lingerer (such 
hearers of the word are by far too common here) , to catch 
his eye and a new inspiration the same moment, to blaze 
away right at him and to hold him like the Ancient 
Mariner to his seat, and address to him an appeal, which 
it almost seemed as if Providence had brought him 
expressly to hear. I have preached better here than 
anywhere else. I think I have improved; but there is 
something of the feeling of desertion and of standing 
alone which one experiences in the Unitarian pulpit here, 
which makes me feel how very important is my station, 



26 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

and what a call there is for larger earnestness, directness, 
voice, gesture, and unction. I have had some most glori- 
ous moments in the pulpit, moments which have carried 
with them an excitement I do not remember ever to have 
experienced elsewhere, or ever so deeply. The audiences 
have been unusually small, but this we must expect. 
The habits of the people here of all denominations are, 
in this respect of regularity at church, diametrically 
opposite to our good old New England customs. Can't 
some of your class come out here as a candidate? If I 
was not possessed with the Western mania in some de- 
gree, I should prefer settling here to almost any other 
place. 

The city itself of Richmond is, for situation, scenery, 
walks, etc., enchanting. There is nothing in all New 
England like it. The society is good. All that is dis- 
agreeable is the wall of prejudice and ignorance we must 
break through. I have not been much into the society 
here. I have become quite domesticated in one of the 
finest families I ever saw. They are Jewish ladies — not 
young or handsome, but everything else — refined, edu- 
cated, Christian; in point of fact, poetical, and above all 
musical. I go there every day, sing, play the flute, chat, 
send poetry, etc., etc. I don't know what I should have 
done with myself in my loneliness here, had it not been 
for these kind, excellent ladies. They know all the Uni- 
tarian ministers almost — are intimate with Dr. Chan- 
ning, William Channing, Mr. S. G. May, and others. 
Their names are Hay and Myers. There are a great 
many Jews here and they have a synagogue. I cannot 
write you more of them now — I have a great many things 
to say, but my paper is out. 

I wanted to tell you about a musical German minister I 
met with in Washington. A real German and enthusiast 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 27 

in everything. A student, a man of learning, but his voice 
and guitar were glorious. And he did sing with so much 
feeling, it was a luxury to listen. I heard from him the 
genuine air of the old ballad of the Erl King. It was un- 
utterable. I was exceedingly sorry to leave him, with 
Washington, — my dear home. 

that you were here, my dear friend, to enjoy my 
delightful walks with me! There are beautiful rambles 
in every direction, in and out of the city. Flowers are 
quite abundant. I have now on my mantelpiece a mag- 
nificent magnolia grandiflora. It is larger than my fist 
— when blown full, larger than both fists, a beautiful 
pure white, imperial-looking, forest flower. It grows 
here only in gardens. It would inspire you to write a 
sonnet upon it, to see it. It has almost inspired me. 
There is something so grand, queenlike, and chiselled in 
its large, oval, close-folded petals, and its dark, shining 
leaves, rising above it like guardian maidens of honor 
around their queen. Something in the powerful and de- 
lightful fragrance that carries the imagination so into 
the dark and deep forests of Florida, and the banks of the 
Mississippi, that I wish I could show my present — for 
it is a present, and from a lady too — to all my friends. 

Preaching in Bangor, Portland, Boston, Rich- 
mond, and back to Washington in the summer, 
Mr. Cranch made many friends; some that lasted 
all his life. One of these was Miss Mary Preston, of 
Bangor, Maine, afterwards Mrs. George L. Stearns, 
of Medford, Massachusetts. Her husband, Major 
Stearns, was the lifelong friend of the slave. He 
frequently hid runaway slaves in his own house, and 
provided them with clothes, money, railroad fare, 
and drove them to the station, which would take 



28 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

them to freedom, in his own carriage. It was he who 
advised the use of colored soldiers in the war, offi- 
cered by young men of the best New England fami- 
lies. Before John Brown's execution, Major Stearns 
went to visit him in prison. The only bust in the 
country of John Brown is the one by Brackett in 
the Stearns' home. 

Giving his fortune, his life, to the great cause of 
freedom, Major Stearns was one of those quiet 
heroes, whose death was none the less a sacrifice, 
although not offered in the ranks of the soldier or 
on the field of battle. 

Mrs. Stearns lived among her relics, and in the 
past. She was the intimate friend of Whittier, of 
Samuel Longfellow, of James P. Bradford, and of 
Dr. Hedge. The portraits of these and of many 
others adorned her parlors, and before each was a 
little bunch of flowers and a wreath of pressed fern, 
forming a fragrant and tender offering at each 
shrine. The portrait of Major Stearns is over all, — 
as he was uppermost in the mind of her who lived 
ever in the light of his spirit and memory. Although 
in her seventies, when I knew Mrs. Stearns, she 
never seemed old; she was full of mental vigor and 
enthusiasm. There was an atmosphere of hospital- 
ity and serenity about her, rare nowadays in this 
over-strained, nerve-racking world. A combination 
of beautiful surroundings — exquisite flowers, rare 
and luscious fruits, which a dear old Scotch gar- 
dener, by his faithfulness and devotion of many 
years, helped to create — made a unique setting for 
this beautiful and strong personality. No wonder 
that Mr. Cranch enjoyed a long talk, after a walk to 
Medford and a Sunday evening tea, at his friend's 



STUDENT AND PREACHER 29 

hospitable board! Her sympathy was always at 
his need, and during their long lives the friendship 
never wavered and was a beautiful tribute to the 
character of each. 

The Reverend Frederick H. Hedge was pastor of 
the Unitarian Church in Bangor, Maine, about 1836- 
37, and had met Mr. Cranch as a young minister and 
Transcendentalist. Mrs. Stearns was a member of 
Dr. Hedge's church. One day she read in the " Dial " 
the lines called " Enosis," and signed " C. P. C." 

Although better known than any of my father's 
poems, I quote the whole poem here, because not 
included in his later volume of poems: — 

Thought is deeper than all speech, 

Feeling deeper than all thought; 
Souls to souls can never teach 

What unto themselves was taught. 

We are spirits clad in veils; 

Man by man was never seen; 
All our deep communing fails 

To remove the shadowy screen. 

Heart to heart was never known; 

Mind with mind did never meet; 
We are columns left alone 

Of a temple once complete. 

Like the stars that gem the sky, 

Far apart though seeming near, 
In our light we scattered lie; 

All is thus but starlight here. 

What is social company 

But a babbling summer stream? 
What our wise philosophy 

But the glancing of a dream? 

Only when the sun of love 
Melts the scattered stars of thought, 



30 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Only when we live above 
What the dim-eyed world hath taught, 

Only when our souls are fed 

By the fount which gave them birth, 

And by inspiration led, 

Which they never drew from earth, 

We, like parted drops of rain, 

Swelling till they melt and run, 
Shall be all absorbed again, 

Melting, flowing into one. 

Miss Preston thought the lines very beautiful 
and asked Dr. Hedge who "C. P. C." was. Dr. 
Hedge replied that he was a young minister, an 
admirer of Emerson, who contributed to the "Dial," 
and other papers, and that he was coming soon to 
exchange pulpits with him, and she would have a 
chance to make his acquaintance. The visiting 
minister was entertained at Mr. Preston's, and it 
was thus in her father's house that Miss Mary 
Preston first met Mr. Cranch. 

I asked what kind of sermons Mr. Cranch 
preached. Mrs. Stearns said, "spiritual sermons," 
that were much liked by the liberal members of the 
congregation. 



CHAPTER III 

WESTERN EXPERIENCES 

In September, 1836, Mr. Cranch returned to Wash- 
ington for a visit to the old home. He was urged to 
come to the West by his cousin, William Greenleaf 
Eliot, who was preaching in St. Louis, Missouri. The 
invitation was accepted and Mr. Cranch preached 
several sermons in St. Louis, staying with kind 
Mr. and Mrs. Christopher Rhodes, while Mr. Eliot 
preached in New Orleans and Mobile. In St. Louis 
Mr. Cranch wrote poems and did other literary work 
for the papers. His flute was his constant compan- 
ion, and Mrs. Rhodes being musical, they sang and 
played together. 

In those days travelling was slow and tedious. 
It took nearly two weeks, by steamboat on the Ohio 
and Mississippi Rivers, with stage across the moun- 
tains, to go from Washington to St. Louis. 

Mr. Eliot afterwards settled in St. Louis, where 
he not only built up a strong society, but founded 
the Washington University and the Training School 
for Nurses, among other good works. His zeal and 
public spirit were unbounded, and he became one of 
the leading men of the West in educational and phil- 
anthropic work. His life was a consecration to the 
highest ideals of duty, and it did not fail of great 
results. In June, 1837, he married my father's sis- 
ter, Abigail Adams Cranch, who, by her devotion 
and unselfishness, was of great service to him in 
building up his church. 



32 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Mr. Cranch went to Cincinnati tentatively as 
regards the ministry at large, to be appointed to 
work among the poor; but he thought himself un- 
fitted for the position. He was trying all the time 
to prepare himself for his duties. His early diaries 
are quite pathetic from his struggles. It was en- 
deavoring to fit a square peg into a round hole; his 
poetic effusions, his love of painting and of music 
all calling him away from sermonizing, which he 
was strongly urged to follow and to crush the rest. 
When James Handasyde Perkins appeared in Cin- 
cinnati, my father knelt to him, metaphorically, 
in homage and in gratitude. Mr. Perkins had the 
consecration necessary for a minister's life. 

In March, 1837, Mr. Cranch left St. Louis and 
went to preach in Peoria, Illinois. There he stayed 
with Judge Bigelow and made some very warm 
friends. 

To Miss Catherine Myers 

Peoria, March 29, 1837. 
How sweet to be remembered so, and to be written to 
by such kind friends, when so far away as "the Childe" 
now is from the land of his home! ... If my poor letters 
to you are well-springs in a desert, what must yours be to 
me. For truly, I am in a desert in more respects than one. 
But you must not imagine that I am complaining of the 
West, or of this place where I at present am. You see 
that I am at last actually in Peoria; yes, actually in 
that much-talked-of place, when I was with you in Rich- 
mond. Harriet's map has at length guided me safely 
hither, to this prairie land. But before proceeding far- 
ther, I suppose I must give you some idea of the place 
itself. Latralie, let me say, was here before the town as it 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 33 

how is had started from the old chrysalis it then was, the 
ruins of an old French settlement. Now, though small, the 
growth of not three years, it is a thriving and growing 
place settled by many New Englanders, good, intelligent 
Unitarian families. Of course the houses are small and 
scattered at present, but what more could be expected in 
so young a place? The location of the town is indeed 
beautiful as has been represented. It is a prairie country. 
The land rises gradually from the Illinois River, where 
there is an excellent landing for steamboats, which are 
constantly coming and going, — then continues perfectly 
level and broad for a good way till it rises back of the vil- 
lage into a long bluff, on which there are trees and beau- 
tiful locations for country-seats. The bluff extends back 
into a prairie, which in summer is covered with the most 
beautiful flowers of all kinds. Below the bluff, where the 
town is, there are no trees, and the ground is as level 
almost as a floor for miles up and down the river. In 
winter, and at present, it is rather a bleak prospect, and 
so unsheltered are we that the winds of the four heavens 
sweep to and fro at all times. But in summer every one 
describes the place to be quite another thing. Nature 
seems to have intended that a town should be built di- 
rectly here. I miss hills and trees very much, but other- 
wise am much pleased with Peoria. It will be a thriving 
large town before a great while, I feel confident. The 
Society also will go on improving, as it has done the last 
year. . . . We have preaching in the court-room. A class- 
mate of mine, Thurston, is stationed at present over two 
other small towns from ten to fifteen miles off, at Tre- 
mont and Perkin. ... 

But hark — it rains, and seems as if it set in for a 
storm. It will quench the prairie fires which have been 
lighting up to-night. These fires are seen almost every 



34 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

night in various directions. I have not yet seen a real 
prairie, much less one on fire, — I mean except at a dis- 
tance. How the rain and the darkness and the silence and 
the solitude turn one's thoughts from outward things to 
the objects of the heart's affections. I believe it was in- 
tended that the eye within should see clearest when it is 
most dark to the eye without — that the soul's ear should 
listen and hear best when the storm speaks to the out- 
ward ear. . . . 

To the Reverend James Freeman Clarice 

Washington City, July 18, 1837. 

As Eliot and I were wending our way homeward, the 
idea came into my head, that at our gathering to dedicate 
the St. Louis church in the fall, we might also get up an 
ordination as well as not. Do not all things agree there- 
unto? Here am I only a half -made minister, going out to 
the West, unconsecrated by my older brethren by the 
laying on of hands to the labors I am to engage in. Then, 
too, we hope to have lots of divines together at the occa- 
sion aforesaid, and an ordination at such a time and on 
such an occasion would be a new and impressive thing. 
Why should not we of the West have our "sprees" eccle- 
siastic as well as our Eastern brethren? I think it is time 
we should begin. I mentioned the idea to Eliot, who likes 
it very much. And I hope it may be carried into effect, 
should we have clerical brethren enough to form a coun- 
cil. I therefore write to you, to ask if you could at that 
time preach the ordination sermon. ... If you think well 
of this plan, and can conveniently preach me into the 
goodly fellowship of the ordained prophets, you shall 
receive all a brother's thanks for your services. 

I intended to have sent you something for the "Mes- 
senger" rather more solid than those scraps I gave you, 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 35 

but my time has been so taken up here that I have had 
too little to dispose of in this way. Poetry, such as it is, 
I can almost always spare. I have been thinking of send- 
ing you an article on Wordsworth, from a lecture I wrote 
on the same, and will, if you like, and time admits. Hav- 
ing preached all my old sermons in Washington, I am put 
to it to write new ones, though Eliot preaches about half 
the time. This writing and the pleasurin' I have had to 
do of late have taken up many hours which I should 
much like to have given to other things. . . . 

To Miss Julia Myers 

Washington, D.C., August 10, 1837. 
... I have so many things to say, as I told you when I 
was with you, that I never know where to begin or end. 
Indeed, during the whole of the time I spent in Richmond 
I felt the same oppressive, unsettled feeling, and could 
not do or say what I wanted to. Many, many things were 
at my heart, but I could not trust to common spoken 
language to utter them, and indeed I know not if it is 
much easier to do it on paper. I have never been accus- 
tomed to give full vent in words to my feelings and 
thoughts: I cannot do it; I have at times, under the influ- 
ence of a temporary excitement of the organ of language, 
joined with other causes, been thrown, as it were, for a 
brief period, out of myself, my diffidence driven out by 
self-possession, and my inertness by a short-lived vigour, 
and words came with an ease and aptitude which sur- 
prised myself. But this is only at times. In general I am 
reserved, secretive, proud, indolent, but above all diffident. 
This besetting diffidence lies at the root of all my reserve, 
and keeps me again and again silent and seemingly cold, 
when no one could tell how deep and strong the stream 
which ran hidden within. . . . The reason why this diffi- 



36 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

dence is not more seen is that I am too proud and sensi- 
tive to opinion to let my diffidence be seen. This, com- 
bined with my indifference to most objects around me, 
make me often seem what I am not. ... 

I shall write my cousin again soon, and tell her all about 
my Richmond visit. And is this long-thought-of visit 
indeed over, and am I in Washington again? Am I no 
longer within walk of your hospitable bower, and the 
magic ring that held me there in bonds of enchantment? 
Enchantment, Verbena, Richmond, — these three words 
shall ever be associated. And am I, indeed, — how long I 
know not, — beyond the sound of your sweet voice, and 
the beautiful Beethovenish "four flats," and its cousin, 
the gentle guitar that inhabiteth that box in the corner? 
No, I am not beyond them. I hear them still. My mem- 
ories of all these joys, and many, many more are vivid, 
indeed, and shall not soon fade. My heart is garlanded 
around with the flowers of Memory. I have been dipping 
these flowers in the fountain of present enjoyment, and 
"the picture of the mind revives again" — the flowers 
lift up their bright, many -tinted leaves and petals, and I 
shall long live in the odour of the past. ... 

His next stay of any considerable extent was in 
Louisville, Kentucky, where he took James Free- 
man Clarke's place, preaching and editing the 
"Western Messenger," a monthly paper "con- 
ducted in the interests of the liberal faith and of 
literature." 

A letter to his sister Margaret, afterwards Mrs. 
Erastus Brooks, gives an account of the society in 
Louisville, and of what he did for the "Messenger." 
It shows how his genial nature made him a favorite, 
and his various talents were brought into use. Of 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 37 

the spiritual qualities of his sermons we must judge 
later. The following letter is dated October 14, 1837. 

Well, here I stick in Louisville still, where I am 
Preacher, Pastor, Editor pro tern.; until that reverend 
dignitary, whose place I am trying to fill, shall return 
from his Eastern wanderings ! His congregation are get- 
ting impatient to have him back again, and I should be 
impatient to get away, were it not that I find it so pleas- 
ant, and that the poor deserted " Messenger" seems to 
beg so hard for an editor. I have contributed several 
articles, but still there is a large vacancy, — this is the 
November number. I would stuff it with more poetry, 
but I am ashamed that so many pieces should go forth 
with "C. P. C." dangling at the end. The numbers should 
be made up by the fifteenth, and as much as one half, 
I think, is yet unfinished. William Eliot has sent no- 
thing yet but an article on Unitarianism. I am preparing 
an extract from one of Edward's letters to give in, and 
am rummaging my "Omnibus Book" for scraps and ends 
to publish anonymously. . . . 

I have found several good pleasant folk here, and a 
few musical ones. Last night I was at a meeting of the 
Ladies' Sewing Society, at Mrs. C.'s.' On entering there, 
I encountered a whole table full of bright faces, ranged 
around a large astral lamp and busily engaged in chatting 
over their work. Some gentlemen were there, and some 
more came shortly after. At half -past nine the ladies put 
up their sewing and dispersed about the room. Soon I 
was called upon to sing with Mrs. E. C. So we sang — 
"Home, Fare Thee Well," "I Know a Bank," and "As 
It Fell Upon a Day"; also, "I've Wandered in Dreams," 
though I never tried it before. 

I went the other night to see Mr. Keats, an English 



38 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

gentleman residing here, and brother to Keats, the poet. 
He seemed to be a very intelligent and gentlemanly man, 
and has some daughters, only one of whom I saw, a 
young lady about fourteen apparently, with face and 
features strongly resembling Keats, the poet, or that 
little portrait of him which you see in the volume con- 
taining his poems in conjunction with Coleridge and 
Shelley. I could scarcely keep my eyes from her coun- 
tenance, so striking was the likeness. They say she 
plays beautifully on the piano. . . . 

I have been preparing, this forenoon, a review of Mr. 
Emerson's Phi Beta Kappa Oration, which is now in the 
printer's hands for the "Messenger." This child, being 
left by its father, the Reverend James Freeman Clarke, 
crieth continually for food. Not more than half the requi- 
site matter is furnished, — and most of that is spun from 
the brains of your humble servant, C. P. C. Clarke just 
lets his offspring go to the dickens. If it had not been 
that C. P. C. happened to adhere to the south bank of 
the Ohio on his way downstream, and take roost awhile 
in these diggings, where had been the flowers and fruits 
that must spring therefrom to fill the "Messenger's" 
demands? I look about now like a hungry lion seeking 
for prey, yea, like some voracious, responsible spider, 
that sitteth solitary in a corner of a deserted house, 
spreading its web and looking on emptiness after strag- 
gling flies of contributors, which come not — of which 
the fewest are to be found. Nevertheless, I give myself 
no uneasiness. The young ravens are fed, and so will the 
"Messenger" be, in time. 

' An old gentleman named Judge S. called on me the 
other day, and wants to take me into the country to his 
house, about five miles from Louisville, to stay some 
days. I should like to go, but doubt whether the "cares 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 39 

of editorial life" will permit. I find everybody here 
hospitable. I can't make visits fast enough. By the 
time I get acquainted here, as it has always been else- 
where, I am obliged to go. But I shall not have been long 
enough in Louisville, quite, to become strongly attached 
to the society. 

To Miss Margaret Cranch 

October 15, 1837. 

. . . Found that Mr. Clarke had returned. Went to 
see him, and spent most of the evening with him, talking 
and looking over Retzsch's illustrations of the Second 
Part of "Faust." By the way, Clarke brought on also 
the fourth part of the long-expected "Pickwick," which 
I am at present enjoying. I have just been laughing 
over it all alone, "till the tears came." I preached twice 
yesterday, as Mr. Clarke was not very well. Had a fine 
congregation in the morning. Preached on the text — 
"The way of the transgressor is hard." And in the after- 
noon, on "The duty of thanksgiving." Mr. Clarke 
praised my afternoon sermon much. He is full of genius 
and magnetism. 

I shall set off in a day or two for St. Louis. ... I begin 
to grow a little impatient to be back among my little 
scattered flock at Peoria. Perhaps I may be able to 
unite Fremont with Peoria in one parish. ... I have 
enjoyed my stay here very much. My impressions of 
Louisville are very different from what they were. Mr. 
Clarke has a noble society and a desirable station, both 
for comfort and usefulness. He has a most enviable in- 
dependence of character, which peculiarly fits him for 
such a place as this. It does me good to be with him. 
He possesses in a marked degree that which I am per- 
petually conscious that I am most deficient in — that is, 



40 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

boldness — an habitual independence and disregard for 
the opinion of men. I think I am acquiring of it slowly. 
The West is a grand school for me in this respect. Still, 
the lack of it palsies me continually. I cannot forget my- 
self. My eyes are turned so habitually on myself, that 
almost every action of my life is divested of freedom. 
Nothing goes from me that has not passed under the 
eyes of self, and is not referred to the opinion of those 
around me. I am not free enough; I am not bold enough 
for a minister of the Word of Life. Over and over again 
do I chide my timidity, my reserve, my sensitiveness. 
I want what might be called spontaneousness. And I 
think the West is the school where this want is to 
be supplied. I must mingle among men and women 
more. I must converse freely and about everything. I 
must interest myself in their conditions and wants. I must 
think more of my fellow men and less of myself. I must 
not feel myself detached from society, but as forming a 
stone in the arch, helping to support the building. In 
the West it is especially necessary that no member of 
society should forget his relations and isolate himself. 
He must step out from the charmed circle of his own 
peculiar tastes, habits, feelings, and sympathize with, 
and help, all around him. This is the minister's office 
by preeminence. The minister should not be a stand- 
ing, placid, lake, embosomed by mountains and gazing 
on the stars; but a quick, deep, active, strong-moving 
stream, winding about among men, purifying and glad- 
dening and fertilizing the world. 

The Autobiography here says of James Freeman 
Clarke : — 

On his return I had some very pleasant days with him. 
He was full of the new poet, Tennyson. He had bor- 






'Mm 



V 







'p?t 



L 6-ii^L. <2~C*^ , <** l </ St^/jCrc^ <■*-+-& 



7 



? 






AN EMERSONIAN CARICATURE 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 41 

rowed a volume of his poems, not yet published in 
America, and transcribed copiously from them. And 
from his copies, I made several, in my own Common- 
place Book. We were both fascinated with these poems. 
And it was here, too, that Clarke and I started the 
idea of making comic illustrations of some of Emerson's 
quaint sentences, such as the "Walking Eyeball," and 
the man "expanding like melons in the warm sun." I 
was quite busy while at Louisville. One number of the 
"Messenger" was made up almost entirely of my own 
writings. 

To Miss Catherine Myers 

Louisville, Ky., November 24, 1838. 
Your letter, dear friends, of the 16th has just come to 
my hands and its spirit to my heart. I have received it 
and read it as I always do your delightful epistles, for 
they all come to me like well-springs in a wilderness. 
Let the heart through this poor pen, its index, thank 
you, dear kind friends. I have yielded to the impulse (for 
I do confess, as Julia says, I am much the child of im- 
pulse, though not wholly so, I hope) and have sat down 
to answer it, and make some amends for my long silence. 
I wrote to you, Julia, the other day, but that shall not 
prevent me from writing again. Your reproaches, those 
gentle reproaches, of my silence, might indeed have been 
deserved, had the fault of this long suspension of cor- 
respondence been with me entirely; but the fact is, I 
had been waiting for the moving of the waters on your 
part. If I remember, it was myself that sent the last 
letter, some time last summer, and a long one too, and 
ever since I have been expecting a reply. What can you 
say then? Have not I the best side of the quarrel? At 
any rate, are we not about even? The fault I suppose is 



42 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

to be chargeable upon some viewless spirit of taciturnity 
somewhere between us. Yet I confess that I may be 
somewhat in fault. As I have often said when egotizing, 
I am a bad mixture of the oyster and the spirit, the un- 
excitable and the excitable, the sluggish and the impul- 
sive, the lymphatic and the nervous, or of whatever other 
strange contrarieties and extremes you please. I stop 
at times and wonder at myself, and fear. At times so 
alive, so excited, so full of one or another faith and aim; 
and at others, so dead, immovable, ennui-ish, a dumb 
beast, a clod, an animal, — a man of two natures living 
on earth and in the sky. I hope it may not always be so. 
It is a great hindrance to me in my walks and under- 
takings in life to be such a Janus with a double head, 
looking two ways and going neither. It is truly a "mor- 
tal coil," this body. We are veritable "spirits in prison," 
and rarely get a chance to stand a-tiptoe and look out 
of "the loopholes of retreat." Christopher out of his 
"cave." Yet we are encompassed around by Spirit. 
The solemn morning light, the presence of Duty, the 
voices of friends, the existence of vice in the world — 
every feeling — every thought, the very existence of 
our bodies and our minds, yes, our very night dreams — 
all are proving it to us, day after day, hour after hour, 
minute after minute, in every pulse of our life blood, in 
every breath of our mortal lungs, in every word embody- 
ing our inmost Me. And yet, fools that we are, we dis- 
believe, we doubt, we forget, we dream, we disobey, we 
hug our fetters, we kiss our prison walls, and our creed 
is, "Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we must die!" 
It is fearful, the mystery that is in us. Still more fearful 
a mystery is it, that we do not always recognize and live 
by this inner mystery. God is in us, but we so quench 
the spirit, that we crush and mangle into ruins His 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 43 

glorious Image in our breasts. But I am mounting the 
pulpit, when I should be seated at your fireside, talking 
face to face. Let us talk of matters other than those 

'* Bubbles that glitter as they rise, and break, 
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring." 

By the way, I need not say how I should rejoice to be 
in propria persona by your fireside. I have always been 
at your house in summer, though I have never found 
you summer friends. I very often have delightful dreams 
of you all, and somehow I almost always dream of see- 
ing you in winter. I do not dream of you as being exactly 
in Richmond, but in some dream city of a Nowhere, 
where a good many other friends reside: sometimes so 
many that I have not time to visit them all. Last night 
I dreamed of travelling through Canada, and waiting 
with a crowd of fellow passengers on the banks of the 
St. Lawrence, — they called it by some other name in 
the language of Dream Land, I forget what 't was, — 
for a steamship which was coming with flying colours 
to take us to our journey's end. So I still dream of trav- 
elling, night after night it is the same. I am a second 
Peter Schlimmel with his seven-leagued boots. If I ever 
get crazy, I suppose it will be on this subject, possessed 
with the demon of perpetual motion, not through the 
air on wings or sunbeams, but by the dull, prosaic methods 
of conveyance usually esteemed in fashion upon this 
nether planet. By the way, did you ever read Keats's 
"Endymion"? It is great! Full of redundant imagery 
and words of thought, but rich "as a perpetual feast 
of nectared sweets, where no crude surfeit reigns." This 
will transport you to every spot in air, earth, ocean, but 
this dull earth surface we plain mortals grovel upon. 
I consider Keats one of the greatest poetical geniuses 



44 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

that for a long time has walked the earth and left it, like 
Chatterton, — 

" the marvellous Boy that perished in his pride." 

What might he not have become, had he lived? There 
is a brother of his here, an old resident of Louisville, a 
business man with a large family, — not much resem- 
bling the portrait of the poet, but a man of fine mind 
and acquirements. That piece in the "Messenger" by 
Mr. Clarke, "To a Poet's Niece," was written to a young 
daughter of his about thirteen or fourteen. There is 
another daughter, older, who is a fine girl, and hath the 
poet's dark, soul-like eyes and diffident manner. .... 

To the Reverend James Freeman Clarke 
t Cincinnati, February 16, 1839. 

Your letter received to-day was peculiarly acceptable. 
As to the information you ask about charitable female 
associations, and your plans and interests, I have re- 
ferred the matter to James H. Perkins, our new brother 
in the ministry. He will write you all about it. He is 
entering upon his duties as minister at large, with the 
broadest grounds and best hopes. He is just the man. 
He and Vaughan and Channing and a few others — 
what a host they will be — an irresistible phalanx, a 
select school for the development and realization of 
true democratic ideas. The Unitarians here are getting 
broad awake. Channing is pouring life into them by 
week-fulls, and John C. Vaughan is stirring his stumps 
and the stumps of all around him in the great work. 
Everything looks encouraging. Other denominations 
seem disposed to cooperate. The "Mechanics" are 
ready for it, and are taking us by the hand. They are 
holding weekly meetings now about the Penitentiary 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 45 

System of the State. Vaughan will sooner or later see 
his favorite idea of a House of Correction realized. He 
is a democrat of the highest order. William Channing 
preaches glorious sermons, extempore, opening his mind 
and his mouth with all boldness. I don't know but I like 
him better as a preacher than I do you. His mind seems 
exhaustless, and his devotion to his calling seems to press 
almost painfully upon him. He is almost universally 
admired, and will, no doubt, return and settle. He has 
not been well since I have been here, being dyspeptic. 
Avoid that malady, my friend! Besides preaching 
two extempore sermons weekly and attending Sun- 
day-School, he attends a Bible-class-sewing-circle of 
ladies, every Wednesday afternoon, and has conversa- 
tion meetings in the vestry every Thursday night. These 
have been very interesting. The ministry at large has 
been talked over, with its attendant topics, for several 
evenings. Men and women are waking. The green 
leaves and flowers are starting; let us pray no untimely 
frost may wither the young germs of life. 

As for myself, I have been a regular loafer here. Living 
in a dusty, noisy law-office, and sleeping in the same on 
a most extemporaneous couch-bed, without a pillow, — 
very unsettled and inactive. Am about starting for Wash- 
ington, probably on Tuesday next. Think I shall candi- 
date at the North, and settle there. Heartily tired am I 
of wandering. I want a home; quiet steady work, and 
a wife. I shall not find them this side of the mountains. 

I sent you two poems, and a short article. Did you 
get them? . . . 

I heard of your letter to Mr. Furness with the Emer- 
sons in it. 1 My sister Margaret is staying with Mrs. 

1 Dr. Clarke did also some funny drawings at that time, along the 
line of Mr. Cranch's caricatures of the "moral influence of the Dial.*' 



46 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

James Furness, and wrote me about it. She says Mr. 
Furness came in one day with your letter in his hand 
and showed her the illustrations. She says she could not 
laugh much because I was not with her, and we were not 
at home together. She is delighted with William Fur- 
ness ; says he is the most delightful man in conversation, 
and laughs with her over "Pickwick," and recites old 
ballads to her at twilight. . . . 

I hope to send you some drawings some time. Con- 
tinue yours to me. Tell me from time to time what you 
preach about, and add some poetry occasionally to fill 
up chinks. A letter from you will reach me in Washing- 
ton. Write us, friend James; much will it refresh our 
souls ! 

Heaven send you peace and joy and all success in your 
ministry! . . . 

From Philadelphia, May 27, 1839, Mr. Cranch 
in a letter to the Misses Myers, speaks of his cousin 
William Furness : — 

I see him very frequently, and pass many of my pleas- 
antest hours in his company. He is a most delightful 
man. I never knew one who seemed to possess such a 
cheerful, even temperament. You know he has suffered 
much bodily pain. The other day, in pulling up a bush 
in his garden, he strained his back, which is always weak, 
and has been unable to move without great pain for 
several days. Yet he seems as cheerful as ever. Yester- 
day he was unable to preach. In the evening I preached 
for him after having preached in the morning and after- 
noon at the Northern Society. This is a small society 
which is struggling to get along, in the " Northern Liber- 
ties," and for which I am engaged to preach for several 
weeks. 



WESTERN EXPERIENCES 47 

Of Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble) he writes: — 

This lady, who resides near Philadelphia, I met in the 
country a few evenings since. I was much pleased with 
her, though I had no opportunity of conversing with 
her, but only of hearing her converse. I, however, found 
her out to be a hot Abolitionist, as nearly all the Eng- 
lish are, before the raw material of their brains is worked 
up in the loom of practical observation. I had no oppor- 
tunity of hearing her read, as I wished. 

To Miss Julia Myers 

Boston, February 4, 1846. 

... I have many friends and other sources of profit 
and pleasure to attract me here, and begin to like Boston 
quite well. For books, lectures, music, churches, literary 
and refined society, it is a great place. Boston has been 
overrun with lectures this winter. I have attended but 
one course, — Mr. Emerson's on the Age. This is 
nearly completed. These lectures have been a treat 
whose worth I can find no words to express. Emerson 
is to me the master mind of New England, at least so 
far as depth and wonderful beauty in thought, rare and 
eloquent delivery go. His name will stand the test of 
time. I rank him along with Carlyle and other stars of 
the age. Emerson's doctrines, however, are considered 
very heretical by most persons, and by as many, down- 
right atheism, mysticism, or perhaps nonsense. Horace 
Mann being asked the other day by a lady how he liked 
Mr. Emerson, "Madam," said he, "a Scotch mist is 
perfect sunshine to him!" 

New England is the place of places for all sorts of 
views. Things new and old are brought to light, and 
have their advocates and believers, and denyers. We 



48 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

have one Miller here, an ignorant preacher, who teaches 
that the world is coming to an end in the year 1843. 
We have another man who is zealous as a flaming fire in 
lectures upon English grammar! — defying his antag- 
onists like a second David. We have had lectures on 
the Turks by a Turk; on Switzerland by a German, the 
lamented Dr. Follen; on Geology, on carbonic acid gas, 
on Eastern customs, on storms, on Shakespeare, and on 
the Smithsonian Legacy — and a thousand other sub- 
jects. In fact this Boston is a very Athens. Moreover, 
we have grand orations. I have attended several. Books 
we have ad infinitum. Have you read Professor Long- 
fellow's "Hyperion"? It is full of beautiful things. A 
work of Jouffroy's, a French philosopher, is just published, 
on Ethics, translated by William Channing. By the way, 
I see the Doctor occasionally, and his daughter Mary, — 
do you know her? Every Thursday evening we have a 
little meeting of the Pierians, a musical society, where 
we have flute music and singing. So you see something 
of my manner of life. It is a sort of dissipation. To-night 
I am going to a little party to meet Roelker, a German, 
who sings and plays, and is a grand fellow. ... I shall 
have Mrs. Lamb's guitar to-morrow in my room to solace 
my loneliness withal. I play scarcely at all on the flute 
now. I have taken to singing instead. I am preaching 
for the winter at a small parish in South Boston, at the 
foot of Dorchester Heights . ; I have had no invitations 
from the muse for a long time. I seem to be in a wintry 
state rather. I have done nothing lately. I am most 
miserably unproductive. O for a mental Spring! O for 
a new budding of the soul! I am an unprofitable wretch! 



CHAPTER IV 

TRANSCENDENTALISM — EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE 

In regard to the meaning of the word "Transcen- 
dentalism," we find a letter about this time to Mr. 
Cranch's father, who had undoubtedly read the 
charges against the "New Views" and Professor 
Andrews Norton's pamphlet reprinting two arti- 
cles by two divines of the Presbyterian Church, - — 
Drs. Alexander and Dod, — where "an exposition 
of Cousin's philosophy" and the German tran- 
scendental philosophy were "arraigned," says Mr. 
Lindsay Swift, in his interesting book on "Brook 
Farm." 

The young Transcendentalist writes: — 

Quincy, Mass., July 11, 1840. 
My dear Father: — 

I received your letter of the 6th by Mr. Green, day 
before yesterday, and reply to it immediately on my re- 
turn to Quincy. 

You express alarm at intimations you have received, 
that I am "inclined to the Transcendental sentiments 
of the German theologist's," and refer to a statement of 
"Transcendentalism" in the "Examiner." The article 
in the "Examiner" I have not seen, and indeed must 
confess that I know very little about this system of phi- 
losophy. So far, however, as I do know anything about 
it, I can assure you, that it neither recommends itself to 
my mind nor heart. The philosophy of Kant, Fichte, 
Hegel, Schelling, etc., which is what I suppose to be the 



50 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Transcendental philosophy, has always, from the very 
slight idea I have of it, struck me as a cold, barren sys- 
tem of Idealism, not calculated to strengthen the soul's 
faith in the external realities of the spiritual world, or 
enable it as a perfect philosophy should, to give a reason 
for the hope that is in us; although to some minds it may 
have this effect. However that may be, and however 
these Germans distinguished themselves as profound 
thinkers and acute reasoners, I am very certain that to 
my mind, a philosophy quite opposite to theirs has far 
greater recommendations. Though not much inclined 
to metaphysical studies, I have found great truths in 
the philosophy of Victor Cousin and his school, who 
seems to stand between both Locke and Kant, the two 
extremes. I will only say that while Kant's system seems 
to me to leave the soul without any certain power of 
knowing the great truths of God, duty, revelation, etc., 
Cousin expressly contends for a religious element in the 
soul ; a faculty breathed into us by God Himself, whereby 
we become surer of the existence of such great truths 
than of anything else. He grounds faith on what is deep- 
est in the soul. And his philosophy is spiritual; is reli- 
gious in the highest degree, for it effectually removes 
the possibility of skepticism by proving man to be cre- 
ated a religious being, a being who has an inner light, 
which can never be entirely quenched, whereby he ac- 
quires a knowledge of God and duty and spiritual things. 
But somehow the name " Transcendentalist " has be- 
come a nick-name here for all who have broken away 
from the material philosophy of Locke, and the old 
theology of many of the early Unitarians, and who yearn 
for something more satisfying to the soul. It has almost 
become a synonym for one who, in whatever way, 
preaches the spirit rather than the letter. 



TRANSCENDENTALISM 51 

The name has been more particularly applied to Mr. 
Emerson, or those who believe in or sympathize with 
him. Mr. Emerson has been said to have imported his 
doctrine from Germany. But the fact is, that no man 
stands more independently of other minds than he does. 
He seems to me very far from Kant or Fichte. His 
writings breathe the very spirit of religion and faith. 
Whatever his speculations may be, there is nothing in 
anything he says, which is inconsistent with Christianity. 

I can assure you that my faith is as strong as it ever 
was, in the truth and the divine origin of Christianity. 
I believe that no man ever was inspired, spoke, or lived 
like Jesus Christ. What my intellect receives must ac- 
cord with the blessed revelation to my heart and con- 
science. God cannot utter two voices. 

It is convenient to have a name which may cover all 
those who contend for perfect freedom, who look for 
progress in philosophy and theology, and who sympa- 
thize with each other in the hope that the future will not 
always be as the past. The name "Transcendentalist" 
seems to be thus fixed upon all who profess to be on the 
movement side, however they may differ among them- 
selves. But union in sympathy differs from union in be- 
lief. Since we cannot avoid names, I prefer the term 
"New School" to the other long name. This could com- 
prehend all free seekers after truth, however their opin- 
ions differ. 

All Unitarians should be of this school, but I must 
confess that there are several of the Orthodox who more 
properly belong to it than do many Unitarians. There is 
certainly an old and a new school of Unitarianism. 

His belief was more fully and decidedly expressed, 
a little later, in his journal: "Men will never agree 



52 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

about the fundamentals of Christianity as long as 
they are possessed with the idea that Christ came 
to teach a system of doctrines. The only steadfast 
ground to be taken is that Christ came as a spiritual 
reformer, not as an instituter of new doctrines." 

In his journal he speaks of having consigned to 
the flames twenty-four of his sermons, saying that 
others would soon follow. He thus states his growth 
from the old ideas to the new: "They are old clothes. 
I feel myself too large to get into them again. I do 
not stand where I stood a year ago." 

Lindsay Swift in his "Brook Farm" says: — 

The appearance of Cranch at Brook Farm was always 
an event. This uncircumscribed genius, by his very 
presence, made everybody forget the dilapidated con- 
dition of the parlor furniture at the Hive; and by his 
singing, which he himself accompanied either with 
guitar or piano, he contrived to infuse an atmosphere of 
affluence into the place which lent grace and elegance to 
this little world. Curtis says that he became simultane- 
ously acquainted with Cranch and Schubert; for Cranch 
had made a manuscript copy of the "Serenade," which 
he sang with such deep feeling as to move sensibly his 
audience; and when, on his first visit to the Farm, he 
sang the ballad "Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear," 
tears were the tribute from some who heard him. His 
powers of entertainment were almost unlimited: he had 
a good baritone voice; he played piano, guitar, flute, or 
violin as the occasion came; he read from his own poems 
or travesties; and his ventriloquism, which embraced all 
the sounds of nature and of mechanical devices, from the 
denizens of the barnyard to the shriek of the railway 
locomotive, held the younger members spellbound with 
amusement, or led to loud expressions of approval. 



TRANSCENDENTALISM 53 

In personal appearance he was of the picturesque 
type of beauty, with much dark, curling hair, a broad 
forehead, delicately cut features, and great sensitive- 
ness of expression. Tall, slight, and graceful, he was an 
alluring presence at all times, and especially when, as at 
Brook Farm, his imagination was kindled and his sym- 
pathies strongest. 

Another glimpse of Mr. Cranch at Brook Farm 
is given in "Years of Experience," by Georgiana 
Bruce Kirby: — 

On the dreariest of winter days, when the sleet and 
biting wind detained at the Hive the few women who 
had ventured down the hill to supper, and caused quite 
a bustle in the kitchen, putting up meals for those who 
had remained behind, the omnibus arrived with no less 
a person than C. P. Cranch, the preacher, poet, musician, 
and painter. How a simple, affluent individual puts one 
at ease! We apologize to the impoverished and dull- 
witted alone. The furniture of the little reception room 
was beginning to look exceedingly shabby, but I am sure 
no one noticed the fact, when that evening, our visitor 
sang to the notes of his guitar: — 

"Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear." 

"Take thou, where thou dost glide, 
This deep-dyed rose, O river," — 

melting to tears the more susceptible of his sympa- 
thetic audience. That night no one of us doubted that 
we, who were permitted to hear, were the most favored 
of the gods. No after quartettes on the violin, in which 
Mr. Cranch took part; no weird passages from the Erl 
King, with mysterious, awe-inspiring piano accompani- 
ment; no charming caricatures from his notebook of 
"The Experience of the Child Christopher down East," 



54 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

or of the Harvard mill grinding out ministers, could 
efface the tender impression made by the ballads which 
he sang in the poor little parlor on that first evening. 

Mr. Cranch was invited to deliver a poem at the 
two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation 
of the town of Quincy at the First Church, May %5 9 
1840. 

"The spell of Beauty is upon the hills, 
The fields, the forest, and the leaping rills, 
For Spring hath breathed upon us, and the hours 
Move to the dial of the budding flowers. 
Joy to ye, leaves and blossoms — ye are springing 
Fast to the melodies around you ringing : 
New life, new thought, midst tame and common things." 

Then he speaks of the contrast, the sternness, the 
barrenness of the scene, and of the Pilgrim Fathers, 
of their high aims, and deep religious cult. 

In another measure comes a very devout "Hymn 
of the Pilgrims": — 

"Hear us, almighty Father! 
No light but thy great eye above us shines! 

Darker and darker gather 
The shades of twilight through the moaning pines — 
Hear while we pray! 

"Hear us, thou great Jehovah! 
, When, wandering through the tangled wilderness, 
Cloud after cloud goes over, 
Forsake us not in our loneliness! 

Shield us to-night! 

"Guard us from every danger, 
Thou, who hast ever been our sun and shield, 

When trials deeper and stranger 
Swept o'er us, as the wind sweeps o'er the field! 
O guard us still ! 

"From the wild foeman's arrow — 
From the dread pestilence that walks unseen — 






TRANSCENDENTALISM 55 

From sickness and from sorrow, 
And more than all, from hearts and lips unclean, 
Save us, O God! 

"And unto thee, great Spirit, 
All that we are and have would we commit; — 

Not for thy children's merit, 
But through thy own free grace, so clearly writ, 
Keep us, we pray ! " 

The poem goes on to speak of the superstition, 
narrowness, and even ignorance, contrasted with 
the better forms of a later religion. He cannot re- 
sist contrasting that older faith with more liberal 
ideas. 

The poem is rather long, but there are some fine 
verses in it. It is not "stuff," as he has written to 
his friend John Dwight. Mr. Cranch had that 
mauvaise honte which never appreciated himself, 
especially in those early days. It was sent to his 
friend Miss Julia Myers who marked in it the best 
verses. In another place I find, "How like C. P. C. "; 
and at the end, "Tres bien, mon ami Christophe!" 
in her handwriting. 

To Miss Julia Myers 

Qtjtncy, May 29, 1840. 

... I have been for over five weeks in Portland, 
supplying Dr. Nichols's pulpit during his absence in the 
South. Have you seen anything of him? I enjoyed my- 
self hugely in Portland. Saw a good deal of society, 
visited, went to parties, renewed old acquaintances, and 
formed new ones, sang everywhere, and was quite a lion 
in this way, pro tern. Portland for society, of ladies es- 
pecially, is one of the pleasantest places I ever was in. 
I had a golden time there. ... I came away to attend 
the Centennial celebration in Quincy. It was the two 



56 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

hundredth anniversary of the naming of the original 
town of Braintree, the old name of Quincy, on which 
occasion I delivered a poem. We had a great day of it, — 
orations, processions, music, dinner of six or seven hun- 
dred persons under a large pavilion, toasts, sentiments, 
speeches, etc., etc. Things went off generally very well. 
Reverend George Whitney's discourse was excellent. Of 
your humble servant's performances it behooveth not me 
to speak; but they seemed to please, and I think parts 
of the poem are quite respectable. It did well enough to 
deliver. The season is charming here now. I never saw 
trees and fields so luxuriantly green. Fruits we have 
none yet, — a few flowers. With you it is hottest sum- 
mer. Do you not envy us Yankees one or two of our East 
winds occasionally? 

To John S. Dwight 

Quincy, Mass., June 19, 1840. 

. . . And now let me recall your letter. I thank you for 
your account of your delightful environment. You seem 
to be in a paradise. Verily I would I could be with you 
a few days. I must try to manage it this summer. I hear 
so much of Northampton, and know nothing of it. But 
I, too, have been in Arcady this spring and summer. In 
this leafy month of June, I can sit in the old hall of my 
father's, 1 surrounded by old whispering ancestral trees 
— and hear the birds — singing forever. The singing 
of the birds is all new to me this year. It seems as if I 
had never listened to them before. 

I mean soon to visit Emerson, and he shall impart 
some knowledge of the different "wandering voices" 
which fill the air and woods. 

1 The old Cranch and Greenleaf home in Quincy. 



TRANSCENDENTALISM 57 

To John S. Dwight 

Quincy, November 20, 1840. 

... I have just returned from Hingham. I walked 
over yesterday morning, attended church and commun- 
ion, and preached for Mr. Stearns in the afternoon, and 
in the evening we had a rather interesting conversation 
meeting in a schoolroom, where there were, I should 
think, one hundred persons. I thought it something re- 
markable, a sign of life at least, that so large an assembly 
should come voluntarily to a conversation on religious 
subjects. Mr. Stearns has great influence, love and re- 
spect among the people there, and it seems to spring sim- 
ply from his entire simplicity, truthfulness, and earnest- 
ness. He is perfectly transparent, and has such a plain, 
direct, solemn way of speaking from the heart to the 
heart, that he seems to win everybody. Both in pulpit 
and parlor he is completely independent and fearless. 
He has all the spirit of a reformer; is quite transcenden- 
tal, though he preaches Christ more prominently than 
some of us ; is deeply alive to the evils of our present reli- 
gious and social institutions, and ready to be one of the 
first to attempt change and renovation therein, in the 
sphere of his influence. I don't know where I have met 
a more liberal and earnest soul. There is no sham about 
him, depend upon it, — no dark cobwebbed corners. 
You might turn him inside out and find him everywhere 
clean. 

"On every side he open was as day 
That you might see no lack of strength within." 

... I have dreamed, really dreamed in sleep, of 
Northampton several times since I left. My visit there 
seems to have enlarged and embellished my possessions 
and estate in dreamland considerably. It was a good 
speculation that way, — my going up to see you. I as- 



58 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

sure you I have beautiful dreams of you all sometimes, 
but so shadowy, — so vague. I have a strange fashion 
in my dreams of seeing the features and feeling the pres- 
ence of several persons, who are yet one person; and of 
mingling many places, which are at the same time one 
place. I would cultivate the art of dreaming, were I you. 
I made a visit of a week at Parker's, immediately on 
my return from Northampton. Parker was taken ill 
suddenly at Chelsea, while preaching, and I went out to 
Spring Street, expecting to find him on his back, the 
nurse, doctor and wife and aunt all in attendance, — 
but no, the creature was up and alive, laughing and work- 
ing and digging at Sanctus Bernardus like a very Theo- 
dore Parker as he was. You might as well put a young 
steam engine to bed, cover it up and give it physic, as 
this marvellous creature. The learned Theban was by 
no means dieting in the article of books, though forced 
to do so in profane, vulgar, material eatables and drink- 
ables. 

To Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Boston, March 2, 1840. 

If the enclosed pieces are worthy a place in the New 
Magazine with which I understand you are to be con- 
nected, will you stand as their godfather, or dispose of 
them as you think best? 

And may I take this occasion, to express what I have 
long wished to do, my deep gratitude for the instruction 
and delight I have derived from all your productions, 
published and spoken. I utter no hollow compliments 
or vain imaginings when I say that I have owed to you 
more quickening influences and more elevating views 
in shaping my faith, than I can ever possibly express 
to you. From my very heart I thank you. With what 



EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE 59 

delight I have read and listened to you, cold words like 
these, have no force to utter. I trust, therefore, you will 
pardon this expression of my gratitude and admira- 
tion, which could not have been restrained, while ad- 
dressing you, without pain. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch 

Concord, 4th March, 1840. 

I thank you for the beautiful verses which I have read 
and re-read with great content. The first piece 1 is true 
and the second is brilliant; I do not know which I like 
the best, for I am wonderfully taken in the "Aurora" 2 
with the "Ripples over the stars," which is so true and 
descriptive, and, I believe, with a certain Miltonic tone 
in "the air that freezes around the Pleiades." I am sure 
that my friend, the fair editor of our yet unsunned jour- 
nal [the "Dial"] will be greatly obliged by these con- 
tributions. To me they are welcome as one more authen- 
tic sign — added to four or five I have reckoned already 
— - of a decided poetic taste, and tendency to original 
observation in our Cambridge circle. I call it Cambridge, 
because it is not confined to Boston, though it does not 
extend far. 

Within a year my contemporaries have risen very 
much in my respect, for, within that period, I have learned 
to know the genius of several persons who now fill me 
with pleasure and hope. My dear sir, I recognize with 
joy your sympathy with me in the same tastes and 
thoughts, in the kind, though extravagant, expression 
of your letter. If my thoughts have interested you, it 
only shows how much they were already yours. Will you 
not, when our fields have grown a little more invitingly 

1 "Thought is deeper than all speech." 

2 The Aurora Borealis. 



60 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

green, make a leisure day and come up hither alone, and 
let us compare notes a little farther, to see how well our 
experiences tally. I will show you Walden Pond, and our 
Concord poet too, Henry Thoreau. 

To Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Fishkill Landing, New Yokk, 
September 12, 1841. 

The favor you showed to some little pieces of mine 
some time since, and the pleasant hours of intercourse I 
have enjoyed with you under your roof and occasionally 
in Boston, encouraged me to trouble you with a few more 
verses, which you are at liberty to give to the "Dial" 
or to the poet's corner of your "Portfolio" as you please. 
They were written last winter, since which time an affec- 
tion of the head has indisposed me almost entirely to any 
inspiration or mental labor. 

I have been spending the summer at the South, and 
have lately taken very vigorously to landscape painting, 
which I am strongly tempted to follow in future instead 
of sermon writing. It is an art I have fondly looked at 
from boyhood. Whether I turn artist or not, I become 
more and more inclined to sink the minister in the man, 
and abandon my present calling in toto as a profession. 
Verily our churches will force us to it whether we will or 
not. 

Once more, my dear sir, permit me to express my en- 
thusiastic admiration and love of your writings. You 
must pardon me, but I am constrained to tell you what 
I never could do in speech, though I have so often wished 
to. 'I feel now as if I should be guilty of a poor and un- 
natural reserve, were I in writing to you, to be silent in 
this matter. The rare beauty of your style is but the first 
charm of your books to me. They are wells of deep truth, 



4 



•* 




EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE 61 

which I feel as if I could never exhaust — full of that 
"divine philosophy" which is described as 

"A perpetual feast of nee tared sweets 
where no crude surfeit reigns." 

Your thoughts have had a deep influence on my faith and 
opinions. There are no writings of the day which have so 
captivated me, and afforded such matter for profound 
thought as yours. I read them again and again, and see 
new truth and beauty at every new reading. Again I ask 
pardon for such blunt praise, but again plead an irresisti- 
ble call to speak from a full heart. It is less to praise you, 
my dear sir, for what is praise to you, than to acknowl- 
edge a great debt of mine. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch 

Concord, October 1, 1841. 
With my hearty thanks for your wise, wistful verses, 
which I read with great pleasure, not only for their tune- 
fulness and particular merits, but for what I admire still 
more, their continuity of thought and unity of plan — I 
hasten to write that an apology may reach you before the 
knowledge of the offence. I sent them very soon to Miss 
Fuller, who, seizing them as editors seize such godsends, 
found them a succor of Apollo for her closing pages. The 
printer took them and Miss Fuller left town. It now ap- 
pears that there was not space enough in the number left 
to print the whole, and, Apollo and all gods having left 
the printer to his own madness, he printed the first half, 
the "Inworld," and left the "Outworld" out. 1 The proof 
which had been directed to be sent to me, only arrived 

1 My father wrote for the Dial, the Inworld and the Outworld. 
These were separated by a mistake of the printer, the first part ap- 
pearing alone. Mr. Emerson writes this delightful letter in conse- 
quence, to my father at Fishkill. 



62 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

this morning. Miss Fuller is here, with Mr. Metcalf's 
compliments, explaining that he could not wait for cor- 
rection, as he had been foiled in opportunities of sending, 
and the 'Dial' would appear to-day. 'Our only amends 
now possible in this great wrath of the muses and their 
diabolical coadjutors, is to declare to you that the piece 
shall appear whole in the next number, with apology for 
the divorce in the last. Let me now take breath to con- 
gratulate you on what is grateful to me in your letter; 
that you dwell in a beautiful country, that the beauty of 
natural forms will not let you rest, but you must serve 
and celebrate them with your pencil, and that at all haz- 
ards you must quit the pulpit as a profession, I learn 
without surprise, yet with great interest, and with the 
best hope. The Idea that rises with more or less lustre on 
all our minds, that unites us all, will have its way and 
must be obeyed. We sympathize very strictly with each 
other, so much so, that with great novelty of position and 
theory, a considerable company of intelligent persons 
now seem quite transparent and monotonous to each 
other. I have no doubt that whilst great sacrifices will 
need to be made by some to truth and freedom — by 
some at first, by all sooner or later, — great compensa- 
tions will overpay their integrity, and fidelity to their 
own heart. Indeed, each of these beautiful talents which 
add such splendor and grace to the most polished socie- 
ties, have their basis at last in private and personal mag- 
nanimities, in untold honesty and inviolable delicacy. 
The multitude, when they hear the song or see the pic- 
ture, do not suspect its profound origin. But the great 
will know it, not by anecdote but by sympathy and 
divination. 

May the richest success attend your pencil and your 
pen. I wish I had any good news to tell you. You will 



EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE 63 

like to know that Miss Fuller transfers the publication of 
the "Dial," — now that Mr. Ripley withdraws from all 
interest in the direction, — from Jordan to Miss Pea- 
body, an arrangement that promises to be greatly more 
satisfactory to Miss Fuller, and so to all of us, than the 
former one. Do not, I entreat you, cease to give us good- 
will and good verses. We shall need them more than ever 
in the time to come; and yet I hope the journal, which 
seems to grow in grace with men, will by and by be able 
to make its acknowledgments, at least to its younger 
contributors. I remain your debtor for your kind and 
quite extravagant estimate of my poor pages. I have a 
pamphlet in press which I call "The Method of Nature," 
an oration delivered lately at Waterville, Maine, which I 
shall take the liberty to send to you as soon as it appears, 
if I ca*n learn in town that you are to remain at Fishkill. 
I have heard lately from Harriet Martineau and Carlyle. 
The former writes about the latter, that he is — fault of 
his nervous constitution — the most miserable man she 
knows; but that lately he seems greatly better, and was 
happy at her house at Tynemouth for two whole days. 
Carlyle writes that he has left London and removed to 
Newington Lodge, Annan, Scotland, but of his works or 
projects, saith no word. 

To Ralph Waldo Emerson, with a copy of Mr. CrancKs 
first poems which he dedicated to him 

New York, May 22, 1844. 
Dear Sir: — 

I should have sent you my little book before now, had 
I received my copies sooner. I trust you will pardon the 
delay, and more especially the liberty I have taken to 
place your name on the dedication page without having 
apprised you of it beforehand. 



64 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Pray receive this hasty note in the light of some fuller 
testimony it would give me pleasure to send of the ad- 
miration and regard of 

Yours truly, 

C. P. Cranch. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr, Cranch 

Concord, June 7, 1844. 

I received a few days ago, in Boston, the beautiful little 
volume of poems which you had sent me, and on opening 
them and your letter, I found the deeper obligation you 
had put me under, by the inscription. Had you asked 
me beforehand, I should have said, "Be it far from thee, 
Lord!" for I dare not sit for a moment in the chair, and 
all the skill I have is to study in the youngest class. As 
you have thrust me into place, I must only hope that your 
fair and friendly book shall not suffer by the choice, and 
then thank you for the noble gift. 

I am glad to find my old friends in the book, as well as 
new ones, and, throughout, the same sweetness and ele- 
gance of versification which I admired in the pieces which 
adorned our first "Dials." But I should like to talk over 
with you very frankly this whole mystery and craft of 
poesy. I shall soon, I hope, send you my chapter on "the 
Poet," the longest piece, perhaps, in the volume I am 
trying to bring to an end, if I do not become disgusted 
with the shortcomings of any critical essay, on a topic so 
subtle and defying. Many, many repentances he must 
suffer who turns his thoughts to the riddle of the world, 
and hopes to chant it fitly; each new vision supersedes 
and discredits all the former ones, and with every day 
the problem wears a grander aspect, and will not let the 
poet off so lightly as he meant; it reacts, and threatens to 
absorb him. He must be the best mixed man in the uni- 



EMERSON CORRESPONDENCE 65 

verse, or the universe will drive him crazy when he comes 
too near its secret. Of course, I am a vigorous, cruel 
critic, and demand in the poet a devotion that seems 
hardly possible in our hasty, facile America. But you 
must wait a little, and see my chapter that I promise, to 
know the ground of my exorbitancy: and yet it will 
doubtless have nothing new for you. Meantime I am too 
old a lover of actual literature, not to prize all real skill 
and success in numbers, not only as a pledge of a more 
excellent life in the poet, but for the new culture and 
happiness it promises to the great community around us. 
So I am again your debtor, and your grateful and affec- 
tionate servant, 

R. W. Emerson. 



CHAPTER V 

PAINTING — MARRIAGE 

In 1841 there enters into my father's life a new ele- 
ment. To occupy himself while he had some dis- 
temper which prevented him from writing or think- 
ing for the time being, he turned to painting. His 
brother John had given some time to portrait paint- 
ing, afterwards studying abroad. Some very good 
portraits remain in the family, attesting by their 
worth his ability in that direction. 

At that time in America painting and music as 
professions were generally very lightly regarded. 
When my father was about to decide upon a pro- 
fession, he considered the ministry the only one left 
him to his taste. His brother Edward was a lawyer, 
and for a doctor he seemed entirely unfitted. He 
speaks thus of the beginning of this great change in 
his life: — 

In the winter of 1841 1 passed several weeks in Bangor, 
Maine, where I preached for Dr. F. H. Hedge during his 
absence. But I was far from well, suffering from a trouble 
in my head and brain. In the spring I was at home in 
Washington, where we had my brother Edward and his 
bride for a short visit. As I was not very well, it was a 
great solace and delight to me when I began here my first 
attempts at oil painting. 

The following extracts from a letter to Miss Myers tell 
of these first crude beginnings in my artistic career. 1 
1 Autobiography. 



PAINTING 67 

Washington, August 2, 1841. 

I am actually at present almost too busy during the 
day to write or read. I have for the last week given up 
everything but the brush, — yes, the brush, — the glori- 
ous brush and palette! I have come to it at last, and am 
anxiously at work — alias daubing landscapes. I first 
tried modelling in clay. One day while ransacking the 
old garret, which, by the way, is the greatest curiosity 
shop in the country, containing the strangest odds and 
ends of forty years' housekeeping, on the strict principle 
of throwing nothing away, not even an old shoe or an iron 
hoop, or a rusty nail, or an empty bottle — ransacking, I 
say, this queer old musty garret, I forget for what, I came 
upon a great lump of clay left here by Powers, 1 the sculp- 
tor. I immediately went to work, daubing in the sticky 
materials, and modelled a few faces, then proceeded to 
taking likenesses therein: tried at my brother William 
and my sister Margaret. But as my busts were by no 
means flattering, I was not encouraged much, and very 
soon laid aside the spatula, and struck into another field. 

The success of two friends of mine at landscape paint- 
ing has mightily moved me to enter the lists, as a knight 
of the palette. 

In a moment of superabundant inspiration I went me 
to Fischer's store and bought me divers colors, brushes, 
a palette, palette-knife, et cetera, hunted up an old scrap 
of canvas and an easel, left in the aforesaid garret by my 
brother John, and forthwith set up a studio, — ahem! 
Unfortunately I have taken no lessons, save a few hints 
picked up from my artist friends aforesaid, who encour- 
aged me mightily, and offer to give me what information 
they are masters of in the art. For a week I have been 
painting steadily, and think with my friends that I do 
1 Hiram Powers made a fine bust of Judge Cranch. 



68 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

remarkably well for a beginning. I feel encouraged to go 
on. It is moreover a real blessing to me, for I needed 
something to occupy me pleasantly, without tasking my 
mind. I feel, while painting, as if I were amid the very 
scenes which my inexperienced brush attempts to por- 
tray. It is living with nature. It is more, for I feel the 
joy of a creator, as if I were the spring, — making the 
trees put out leaves and unloosing the purling streams, 
and rolling them down their rocky beds, calling up clouds, 
and lighting them with sunset glories. The mere attempt- 
ing to do this is an infinite pleasure to me. In fine, I am 
in love with my palette and easel. I only want some ele- 
mentary instruction in coloring and a proper supply of 
canvas, and I am a sovereign on my throne. I do not 
know how long this fit will last, but I certainly have had 
a little foretaste of the joys of the artist, and it seems to 
me, I could never grow weary of the work. I have at- 
tempted nothing but small sketches as yet, but long to 
launch into something larger. Why may I not pursue it 
eventually as a profession? It is a precarious one, I know, 
to earn a livelihood by, but not less so than that of a 
minister, a free speaker, — I mean, in the present crisis 
of things. I shall therefore work on, and trust in Provi- 
dence. 

To John S. Dwight 

Bangor, Me., February 12, 1841. 
. . . Thy letter was as the rennet which turneth the 
watery milk into the rich coagulum of curds, — the 
chemical element wanting to the union of half intention 
and performance. For my long silence you must in part 
charge my bodily system — for I have not been, and am 
not well, and my ailment is of a kind to depress and ren- 
der unelastic both mind and will. While this trouble of 



PAINTING 69 

the head lasts, both enjoyment and endeavor are damped. 
Nothing is whole, bright, and perfect to me. I have no 
inspirations. Thought, eloquence, and poetry desert me. 
Preaching and praying are fallen into traditions, and 
things of routine. I live — - that is all. Nothing interests 
me but what excites or amuses. Music and drawing I can 
enjoy. But reading and writing lag most ominously. 

But I should not weary you with complaints. The fact 
is, after all, that I am enjoying myself. I am very pleas- 
antly fixed here — at John A. Poor's. Have his library 
to myself — see pleasant people — and do very much as 
I please. I have no sermons to write — which is a com- 
fort to me now. I use the pencil not for comical subjects 
or devils — I am out of that vein — but in landscape 
sketching. One want I feel here is music. There is a flute 
in the house. And I have seen a couple of pianos since I 
have been in Bangor — but more unmusical people I have 
seldom met. Rupel has been here, giving concerts this 
week. Mr. Poor you know. He spoke with enthusiasm of 
you and your preaching. He is a clever man and so is his 
brother Henry, who, by the way, is engaged to a sister of 
Mrs. Hedge. I have as pleasant quarters here as I could 
find in the city. I have had lately some refreshing com- 
munings with Mr. Stone of Machias, who spent a few 
days here lately. He is a brother-in-law of the Poors. 
You remember his article in the "Dial" — "Man in the 
Ages"? A freer, more childlike, more beautiful mind, I 
never met with. He is fragrant with the very warmest 
bloom of the true transcendentalism — a true Christian 
Pantheist, a man with a soul — which is leading him far- 
ther and farther away from the prison house of his 
brethren, the Philistines. All the best things of Emerson 
and the "Dial," flowering and exhaling in spontaneous 
odors in his spirit. I see not how he can stay in his present 



70 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

fetters. The man is larger than the bed — the unwieldy 
armor of Saul's carcass fitteth not this spiritual David. I 
would we had conversed more on matters of faith. I saw 
so much in him that I longed to see all — were it even 
remotely possible. . . . 

To John S. Dwight 

Washington, June 8, 1841. 
. . . One thing I know of you — and herein feel deeply 
the contrast between us, viz., that you have been at 
work, that you suffer no dark ennui or vacancy, that you 
have a definite, daily, sphere of action and are happy in 
doing somewhat at the quarry of life. I have no such 
sphere, no such daily ^ necessity to labor, hardly even a 
definite source of action to look forward to. The future, 
like the present, seems to me a cheerless blank. Con- 
scious of capabilities, yet unable to choose, unable to de- 
cide what I am to work at, as first and foremost. Where 
am I to go? What am I to do? Advise me. I feel called 
back to New England, and yet when I get there, it is 
more than I can say or foresee what my vocation is to be. 
I must support myself. Body, mind, soul, all need action. 
Yet I see not into the dark void before me. At present I 
cannot study or write. I am not well enough. I have the 
same old trouble in the head, nerves, and brain. Of this, 
however, I hope to get rid in time. Meanwhile I cultivate 
the fine arts a little. I spend a part of every day in draw- 
ing, which always makes the time pass pleasantly. )Oi 
late, I have been a little excited to aspire somewhat 
higher. Some productions by two young landscape paint- 
ers here, contemporaries of mine, who, until of late, were 
working in quite different spheres from the artist's and 
now have "planted themselves indomitably on their in- 
stincts," which instincts promise not to betray and befool 



PAINTING 71 

them, have given me a desire to try the brush and palette. 
I have not done it as yet, but I feel a call that way. To 
be a landscape painter, I have often strongly desired. It 
would be an infinite joy to me to do something in this 
way. And I think I will try it. A little instruction in col- 
oring is the most that I need. With this I feel that I could 
go on alone, conquering. I shall not, however, take it up 
as a profession. That were too hazardous an experiment. 
I do not look any farther at present than to begin, to be 
seated before the easel, with brush and palette. 

June 9. 

Another steaming day. There is one pleasant place of 
resort this warm weather, quite near me, and that is the 
Congress Library. It is getting, however, too public for a 
library. Strangers, men and women, are thronging in all 
the time. I have almost just returned from there, where 
I have been with my sister looking over Flaxman's 
Dante, Michael Angelo, and a splendid collection of 
mezzotint engravings of Claude. Did you ever see these? 
They are in an English work, folio, 3 volumes, called 
"Liber Veritatis." They are great. After looking at them 
I have no taste for your modern landscapes. There is 
such truth, yet such ideality, such simplicity, yet such 
richness, variety and effect! He has such splendid trees, 
such graceful classic groups, such a delicious coolness 
about his rivers, and woods, and flocks and herds, and all 
executed in such masterly drawing, and such a rich brown 
umbre tint, I am never weary of turning them over. They 
are just the pictures, those quiet, cool, pastoral land- 
scapes, to look at this fiery summer weather. Quite dif- 
ferent are other apartments in that great Capitol, from 
this room. 

Congress you know is in session. I have gone into the 



72 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Chambers of Council, a few times, but it is so close and 
crowded and warm; business moves on there so laggingly, 
or so uproariously, that I have little taste for resorting 
there. . . . J. Q. Adams, as you will see by the papers, has 
quite unexpectedly succeeded in getting the 21st rule of 
the House rescinded, that, namely, which rejected all 
abolition petitions. It is quite a triumph for the North, 
and more a triumph for truth and freedom, though I 
doubt if any immediate good, or any quite remote good, 
can result from it. The Southern members are doubtless 
mad enough about it. . . . 

Have you sent any German translations to Brooks for 
his forthcoming book? I sent two or three trifles. I had 
nothing by me and one sees no German books here. What 
a totally different atmosphere — intellectually and mor- 
ally — there is here from Massachusetts. You cannot 
conceive a more external place than this. ... I want to 
hear something about Boston matters — particularly 
about Ripley's farm. I may join them yet. Write to me, 
dear friend, and tell me what is going on. 

My father speaks of his visit to his relatives, the 
De Windts, at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson : "In the 
latter part of August, I went by invitation from 
Mrs. J. P. De Windt to Fishkill to preach to a very 
small congregation and society, which had been 
for some time in existence there. The meetings 
were held in a schoolhouse. I was the guest of 
Mr. and Mrs. De Windt, in their beautiful home 
on the banks of the Hudson, amid flowers and 
trees, surrounded by lovely scenery, and soon held 
spellbound by a tie which has lasted all my life." 
i My mother, Elizabeth De Windt, was a beautiful 
creature. She had regular features and quantities 



(^ 






I { - V 



\*; 






v \ 



MRS. CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 
Pencil sketch by F. O. C. Darley 



PAINTING 73 

of light-brown, curly hair. Her head was hand- 
somely set on her shoulders, and she carried herself 
with grace. 

Tom Hicks had painted a portrait of her in a sad 
and pensive mood, which impressed her father 
gloomily, so he painted another. But the first pic- 
ture was much the better, and was given to my 
mother by the artist. Later, F. O. C. Darley said 
to her, "Mrs. Cranch, your profile is full of tender- 
ness." He dashed off a little sketch of that profile, 
and as it is the most characteristic likeness of her 
extant, it is much prized by her daughters. It is 
given here. 

Mrs. De Windt was a granddaughter of John 
Adams. 1 She brought the culture of New England 
into the De Windt family, and often made visits to 
her uncle, John Quincy Adams, in the old home in 
Quincy. Her mother was the beautiful Abigail 
Adams who went to the court of George III when 
John Adams was Minister to England, and whose 
picture was painted by Copley in pearls and pow- 
der. This was unfortunately destroyed by fire in 
the old De Windt homestead, but a copy is in exis- 
tence with the same beautiful coloring, done con 
amove by George Hall. 

1 John Adams Richard Cranch 

married married 

Abigail Smith. sisters Mary Smith. 

Their daughter Their son 

Abigail Adams William Cranch, the Judge, 

married married 

Col. William Stephen Smith. Ann (Nancy) Greenleaf. 

Their daughter Their son 

Caroline Amelia Smith Christopher Pearse Cranch 

married married 

John Peter De Windt. Elizabeth De Windt, 

daughter of Caroline Amelia. 



74 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Miss Elizabeth De Windt was the third daughter 
in a large family. She frequently visited Quincy 
and Washington and kept in touch with her moth- 
er's family. 

To Miss Catherine H. Myers 

Fishkill Landing, N.Y., October 4, 1841. 
. . . Know you that here in the beautiful village of 
Fishkill Landing on the Hudson, with a most beautiful 
environment of things, places, and persons, I have been 
sojourning since the last of August. A small society is 
established here, to whom I have been preaching. But 
the pleasantest part of it is that I am the inmate of a 
delightful family; that is, not to be enthusiastic, a right 
good, excellent, kind, intelligent family — by name De 
Windt. It is one of the oldest, best, and, I believe, wealth- 
iest families in this vicinity, consisting of Mr. De Windt, 
his wife and some eleven children. Their farm and house 
is directly on the banks of the Hudson, embosomed in 
trees, a most lovely, lovely spot, called Cedar Grove. 
Mrs. De Windt is a relative of my father's. She is the 
granddaughter of John Adams, and daughter of Colonel 
Smith, who was a somewhat distinguished officer in the 
Revolution. Her mother was Abby Adams, the only 
daughter of the old President. Mrs. De Windt has pub- 
lished a volume of her mother's letters and correspon- 
dence which you may have seen. Now, you ask, what 
have I been doing — which may be easily answered. 
Little enough of anything, for I am the laziest of men. 
Yet I have been doing something, not writing much, 
but painting, sketching, singing, rambling in search of 
scenery, — which is abundant and of the first order 
here, for we have river, mountains, streams, and woods 
around us, — cultivating some pleasant acquaintance, 



PAINTING 75 

and altogether enjoying myself in my old dreaming 
fashion. 

My health is considerably better — indeed I am a well 
and sound man to what I was when with you. So do not 
be anxious about me on that score. I have preached 
regularly, made visits, taken walks, and enjoyed life 
and nature. 

And I may allow myself to hint another thing, of 
later date. I cannot exactly decide with myself whether 
I am actually in love, but there is a fair spirit here who 
has breathed new life around me of late. More of her 
I shall not say just now than this, and just amuse my- 
self with hinting afar off the remote possibility of some 
crisis occurring in your friend's life. Yet it may all turn 
out a dream. 

. . . The other day came William H. Channing for an 
hour or two on his way up the river to see his wife. Day 
before yesterday came Charles F. Hoffman and spent 
yesterday with us, a writer and poet of a good deal of 
merit. I found him a highly agreeable man, of fine mind 
and fine powers of conversation. Over the river there is 
a son-in-law of Mr. De Windt's — at Newburgh, oppo- 
site Fishkill — a man of fine intellect and caste, whose 
house and gardens are perfect gems. His name is Down- 
ing. He is the author of a work on landscape gardening. 
Then there are beautiful houses and good . collections 
of pictures to be seen, and people who seem to appre- 
ciate them. . . . 

To John S. D wight 

Fishkill Landing, October 16, 1841. 
... I am a happy man, and you will rejoice with me 
over my good fortune. Know thou that not only am I a 
lover, but am actually engaged. A true and lovely soul, 



76 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

incarnated in a lovely form, has crossed my orbit within 
the last four weeks, in the person of Miss Elizabeth De 
Windt, daughter of John Peter De Windt of this place, 
at whose house I have been residing since the latter end 
of August. Three weeks' acquaintance may seem a 
short prelude to a genuine, matter-of-fact engagement, 
but you must know that I have seen her and been near 
her all the time, and our attachment to one another 
ripened fast. A few days after I saw her she became my 
pupil in German, my first pupil, now my companion 
through life. Should not the old Saxon tongue wear now, 
besides its former attractions, a new and original bright- 
ness? Is it not associated with some of the brightest 
passages of my life? Good friend of mine, if you would 
win your love, if you have not won her, try this order of 
tactics. Cannonade the proud citadel with right tough 
Teutonic words, watch her lips as she reads and stum- 
bles over the rough vocables; insist upon her sounding 
the ch right and all the other hard pronunciations. . . . 
Then, how has beautiful Nature befriended me! what 
beautiful moonlight rambles, and piazza promenades, 
and rides; also music, and drawing! Surely all good 
angels officiated in bringing the happy result about. I 
would describe her to you, but don't feel analytic — yet 
may give a few random strokes. For her mind, she is 
not a genius, but has talent, good sound sense, and can 
appreciate the higher sorts of minds. For her soul and 
heart, they are of the finest make, warranted sound and 
pure and noble, she is eminently "a girl of truth, of 
golden truth," for her heart in all its purity and devotion 
has she given to me. And last — for her person — not so 
faultlessly beautiful as your young flower of Northamp- 
ton, but yet very fair, tall, very tall, regular features, 
lightish hair, soft blue eyes, and the loveliest mouth and 



PAINTING 77 

smile — and so on — and so on. I care not to describe, 
when I love so well. 

And now for the dull necessities of the world. I must 
look about in earnest for a living. I have thought and 
thought and thought, and am now pretty much deter- 
mined, spite of all my objections, to stick a while longer 
at the candidatory trade. I am sick of it, and pining for 
freedom and self-repose, but there is a good side to the 
profession after all, and I must be married. I may not 
always be a minister, exclusively a minister, but at pres- 
ent I see no other way open. How are the vacancies 
in New England? Write me what you know about it. 
I shall probably be looking that way ere long. I shall be 
here, however, perhaps a few months longer, after a short 
visit South. The country is magnificent for scenery. It 
is perpetual enjoyment to me to see. I have painted con- 
siderably, little things, and carry my colors and palette 
with me. I need instruction, but improve, nevertheless. 

To Miss Julia Myers 

Fishkill Landing, N.Y., April 11, 1842. 

... I can hardly tell you in the compass of a letter 
all that I have been seeing, hearing, thinking, and doing 
since I last wrote you. I have been for the most part in 
Boston, that little world, that vortex of life, that spot of 
all others in the country where life in all its various as- 
pects is so concentrated and distilled, that city of bright 
intellects, warm hearts, fair faces, sweet music, parties, 
concerts, lectures, churches, schools, — an olla podrida 
of everything to be thought of and done. . . . 

Of the many aesthetic banquets at which I have re- 
galed, I will here speak of one of the most savory and 
satisfactory, that is the concerts. The music of Harmony 
certainly seems to have descended this past winter upon 



78 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

the capital of Yankee land. No longer speaketh the 
divine guest through pumpkin stalks and base fiddles 
and spinnets and fifes and drums and Jew's-harps, but 
through the sweetest tones of the violin, violoncello, 
oboe, guitar, and organ; and through the richest of 
singers of both sexes, and the sublimest of choral and 
orchestral harmony. 

There is one instrument, which in the hands of the 
master whose performances upon it I have repeatedly 
listened to, has been like a new revelation in music to me. 
It is the violoncello. Did you ever hear it? But even if 
you have, and in the hands of the best amateur, you 
can have no idea, nor can I give you any, of its wonder- 
ful power when touched by Knoop, said to be the great- 
est artist on this instrument in Germany. If you would 
hear the very soul tell all its deepest, most inner feelings, 
if you would listen to language as from another world 
and from some matured spirit in a more exalted and per- 
fect state than here below, go to hear Knoop. You will 
feel as if he were drawing out of you your very soul. I 
will transcribe a part of what I wrote down on first hear- 
ing him. 

O the power of expression it has! Those high, flute- 
like harmonic notes, vanishing off and off like some bird 
you watch in the blue sky, till it recedes forever from 
you : — those deep wailings of grief, where the rich bass 
of the man's voice and the softer complainings of woman 
so wonderfully blend with and succeed each other, — 
those bursts and growls of passion from the lower strings, 
the tenderness and depth of all its tones, make it to me 
the most expressive of all instruments. It seems to have 
all the force and expressiveness of the violin, without any 
of its obtrusive harshness, and besides this, the glorious 
bass, which the violin wants. It is the violin matured 



PAINTING 79 

and mellowed, the perfect man of stringed instruments. 
How eloquently it seems to talk and discourse to us, how 
persuasive, how dignified, how careless and unconscious 
it appears of its own commanding power! It is Adam 
conversing with his spouse — man and woman, wisdom 
and love blended. 

. . . My friend Dwight has been delivering a great 
course of lectures on the musical composers, but to very 
small audiences. The people are hardly prepared to en- 
ter into those moods from which his lofty strains flow. 
Music is a different thing to him from what it is to any- 
body I ever knew; therefore he is a mystic to those whose 
natures do not lead them into the same feelings and 
ideas. . . . 

To John S. Dwight 

Burlington, Vermont, May 25, 1842. 

I am determined not to give up preaching unless com- 
pelled to by health, and by want of sympathy and en- 
couragement from without. I like my profession in many 
respects, and have grown accustomed to it. I should 
never get my bread in any other way; and I know not 
if, upon the whole, any other sphere of life would bring 
me any more inward peace and satisfaction, than this. 
I am resolved, therefore, to submit as far as I can do so 
without compromising my views and feelings, to such 
usages and forms as the profession ordinarily carries 
with it, and wait for things to grow better and more 
rational. 

I have rather pleasant quarters here in the Pearl 
Street house. The people of the society are friendly and 
sociable, with some degree of refinement and cultiva- 
tion. I miss the delights of music. There are some pianos 
in town, but none at the house where I am. I hanker and 



80 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

thirst for a piano, the want of which excitement I make up 
for, as well as I am able, by playing through "Norma" 
on my flute, and by smoking cigars. I have written a 
little rhyme, and two sermons — I also sketch a little, 
and go out after wild flowers; but spring with her glories 
seems but a slow and reluctant visitor to this northern 
clime. 

To Edward P. Cranch 

Fishkill Landing, N.Y., May 30, 1843. 
... I thank you for all your sympathy and counsel, 
as to the vague future before me, and the blank pres- 
ent, which this transition state is the natural cause of. 
Preaching I have about done with. What little I have 
lately done, has not been through choice, so much as 
necessity, and for love. I feel ambitious of entering life 
as a whole man — an individual man; and if possible, of 
working and earning money in some way suited to my 
tastes. But at present I do not stand even on the thres- 
hold of this new life. Something I must do, however, 
and soon. Three ways present themselves to me, and I 
do not know why I may not endeavor to unite them all! 
(1) Make illustrations; of this I have spoken. There is a 
good field for this work in the city of New York, and I 
shall make inquiries there about it. I could easily learn 
to draw on wood, or even perhaps to etch. This, however, 
we waive for the present. (2) Landscape painting. I 
want to make the experiment at least, and see if I can't 
paint something that will sell. I have many friends, who 
may perhaps help me. I took a few lessons in Boston 
of John Greenough which helped me a good deal. And 
with a little more practice and a few more hints from 
painters, I should get on, I think, quite fast. (3) Author. 
I am writing for magazines which will give me a little. 



CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRAXCH 

Pencil sketch bv William Wetmore Story 



PAINTING 81 

I shall publish a small volume of poems before the 
winter, which, though it may pay me nothing, will 
get my name up, and insure me better pay with the 
magazines. 

I think of going to New York to live, — at least for 
the present, — and look out there for something to do. 
... I should live in New York as economically as pos- 
sible, and as independently as a Bedouin chief. There 
is no place in the United States like New York for indi- 
vidual living. I shall miss Boston society, and the friends 
I saw there, but then, I shall be near my Cara Lisa, 
and the Highlands. . . . 

So far from my lady love's thinking it a descent from 
pulpitdom to any otherdom, she rejoices infinitely over 
the chance, and would indeed have me be anything but 
a minister. She is content with any sphere of life which 
would allow us a support. We have even talked of join- 
ing Ripley's community at Roxbury , and the suggestion 
came from her. She has a truly independent and ener- 
getic soul. . . . She wants me to devote myself to land- 
scape painting and illustrations; also to authorship. But 
her own taste in painting encourages me particularly 
towards that path. Next week I shall probably be in 
New York, where I can feel about me more tangibly. I 
feel as if there must be something for me to do there; from 
which dollars and cents shall flow forth for the refresh- 
ing of my soul. Believe me that your wholesome doc- 
trine therefore begins to assume a deeper significance to 
my soul. Henceforth I devote myself to money-making, 
"remuneration"! I repeat over to myself with Costard 
the clown; "Guerdon, O sweet Guerdon! Be thou be- 
fore me night and day, till I can command where now 
I stand and beg." . . . 



82 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

To John S. Dwight 

August 13, 1843. 

... Is the world all occupied, that you and I cannot 
find a single corner to stand in and eat our bread and 
cheese? Must we be "of the chameleon's dish and eat 
the air, promise-crammed"? But your lot is a harder one 
than mine, for you have less in common with the ways 
and tastes of the many than I. You stand upon a loftier 
summit, and feed on purer nectar, and more divine am- 
brosia, and the world acknowledges none such as useful. 
They lend no money's worth to the markets, and then 
"on their hermit's rock, on their divine mountain sum- 
mits, let them starve!" says the thick-skulled, filmy- 
eyed world. Yet, my friend, I am in the hope you will 
one day be not without your reward, even in hard 
specie. Only produce, produce, hide not your light un- 
der a bushel, but let it blaze forth, wherever there is an 
eye to appreciate it, for it is a rare genius you are en- 
dowed with, and you should not hide it like the Rosi- 
crucians, nor dream it away in the fields, but bear it like 
a torch into the very thickest of the multitude, and make 
them acknowledge and honor you. 

I am becoming more and more a student of nature 
and only regret that heretofore I have made so little use 
of the opportunities, I have had, when among scenes 
of great natural beauty. As yet I do not expect much 
profit from painting, pecuniarily. The parson as you 
conjecture is pretty nigh obsolete. I have preached one 
sermon only for Bulfinch, as he needed help. But I am 
fairly rid of all parishes and all the bores and petty 
hopes and fears which young ministers are heir to, and 
am a free and independent man, thank Heaven! My 
only regret is now that I did not cut through this tangled 
skein long ago. 



MARRIAGE 83 

Though all is uncertain before me in this, my newly 
chosen profession, yet welcome poverty, I say, if it wears 
such a jewel as this — if I can so brighten my days with 
the delights and fascinations of an artist's life. I have 
now no ennui, no grief, no anxiety, no pain, no languor, 
which I cannot drown in this flood of beauty which pours 
around me, and which bears me buoyantly and in festal 
pomp and strength upon its bosom. While I can trans- 
fer, even so imperfectly, sweet nature to my canvas, or 
trace the ideal nature beneath this outward life, I live 
in perpetual creation. I am in a world of my own, and 
nothing can pain me. After all what atmosphere is com- 
parable to that of the studio? Here in this quiet, subdued, 
mellow light, the harsh world is shut out, and approached 
only when duty and common everyday interests sum- 
mon us to action, which only prepares us for the next 
day's absorbing labor, at the end of which we only find 
ourselves weary without knowing why. And, is not the 
artist, too, working for truth and goodness as well as 
beauty? Is he not doing the world a great benefit when 
he thus sows flowers along its sandy tracts, and festoons 
its desolate places with beauty? I have an inward feel- 
ing that my time is not misspent, though I may never 
attain to eminence. If I can in the remotest degree, by 
my labors, bring thoughts of nature and dreams of para- 
dise into a single soul, I have done some good, I have 
spoken some truth. 

To Edward P. Cranch 

Washington, October 18, 1843. 
The great event of my life, I am happy to inform you, 
has at length taken place, and all things therewith con- 
nected and associated have up to the present hour 
proved auspicious and happy, even the weather .... 



84 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

The wedding took place at half-past eight on Tuesday 
evening the 10th, precisely two years from the day of our 
engagement. Dr. Dewey officiated. Charles F. Hoffman, 
of New York, was my groomsman, and Isabel, Lizzie's 
sister, bridesmaid. The bride was dressed in white muslin, 
her hair curled and adorned with beautiful white flowers, 
and looked very lovely. There were twenty or thirty per- 
sons present, the greater part relatives of the family. A 
supper and a big wedding cake concluded the evening. At 
ten o'clock on Wednesday we were off, making a call at 
Mr. Downing's in Newburgh on our way. — And here 
we are safely at home, where already has commenced 
the routine of visits of ceremony to the new married 
pair. We only want you and Abby here to make every- 
thing complete. It is really provoking that you should 
have been here so recently and were obliged to return 
without seeing your sister-in-law. But I hope it may not 
be long before you will see her. 

We shall remain about a fortnight, and then return to 
New York, where we shall get established in our house in 
Lexington Avenue, near Twenty-second Street, 1 in the 
course of next month. ... If I can contrive it I shall 
have my painting room in the house, where I expect to 
be very industrious the coming winter. 

To John S. Dwight 

New York, December 6, 1843. 

I scarcely yet realize the change I have gone through. 
From a lonesome loafer of a poor bachelor to a proud and 

1 Of this house he says in a later letter to his brother: "It is nearly 
in the suburbs and three miles from the Battery, but omnibuses are 
passing us all the time, and you can go the whole distance down for 
6 J cents. I have become used to New York distances. Sister Lizzie 
lives about a mile from us, but we consider it quite in our neighbor- 
hood." 



MARRIAGE 85 

happy bridegroom, from a careless, independent, irrespon- 
sible, improvident dreamer, to an anxious, dutiful, active, 
practical, prudent manager and head of a family, living 
in a three-story house, my name publicly blazoned on 
the front door, and ten grown people and a wife to look 
after every day — a man that counteth the dollars and 
cents, keepeth accounts, maketh bargains, taketh the 
daily paper and saith to his servants in the kitchen — 
"do this — and they do it"; one that looketh before 
rather than after, and feels that life is earnest, and the 
Ideal — alas! less for a season than the Actual. One, 
that f eeleth after, with sorrowful surprise, the limitations, 
which press on all sides, whenever he compareth the 
Fact with the Idea, — here is signified a change which 
is not small. Not that I would dwell more on the cares 
of married life than its delights, for both have their 
emphasis. 

It is a great step to have taken. But I see, I think, the 
leading hand of Providence in it. It is singular that I 
should have been married just at a time when I have 
no profession, no resources, nothing certain to look for- 
ward to as a support. We take a house at three hundred 
dollars rent for the first year (it will undoubtedly be 
raised the second year) , move into it, with nothing given 
us but our furniture and some occasional presents from 
my father-in-law, and depend for our daily subsistence 
on a few boarders. Somehow we get along very com- 
fortably. Our boarders are not strangers, but friends. 
We have a house full, and make quite a pleasant little 
circle. Doubtless it were far pleasanter to have a home 
consecrated to no divinities but Hymen and the Muses, 
but there would be after all a sort of refined selfishness 
in this, which might punish itself in monotony and ennui. 
On the whole, I quite like to have my house full, pro- 



86 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

vided the inmates are to our taste. I have a little room, 
just big enough to turn around in, where I paint and 
write. Of the first, I have done little lately, of the second, 
nothing; but as I become more settled, I hope to be more 
industrious. You compliment altogether too highly my 
letter in which I spoke of turning artist. I fear I shall 
utterly disappoint my friends, on this score. Besides, 
I fear I am but a half -blooded artist after all. There are 
still sidelong glances at my old profession. You will be 
surprised, perhaps, to learn that I have occasionally 
preached, and still shall do so, when the inward and the 
outward calls agree. But I do so with perfect freedom, 
preaching whatever I please, with none to make me 
afraid. When I do not preach, I hear William H. Chan- 
ning. I regret every chance I miss of hearing him. I 
could write you a great deal about him, had I room and 
time. He is a wonderful speaker, and it is perfectly as- 
tonishing that he is not more appreciated here. I never 
have seen such purely intense inspiration in any speaker. 
You must come on and hear him with me. Besides, I 
want to see you and talk with you about sundry matters. 
I heard of your plan you had in consideration of going 
to Europe, and am glad you did not go, though the 
temptation must have been strong. You are living, too, 
in a musical atmosphere. I hear no music. Ole Bull is 
great, no doubt, and Castillan, and Vieuxtemps, and 
others, but I fear I must deny myself these luxuries. I 
must, however, see Macready. Do come on and see me. 
I have a spare room for you, and room at the table, and 
a chair for you by the fire, and a warm welcome to all I 
can give you. 

Of the Reverend William Henry Channing, Mr. 
Cranch wrote more than forty years later: — 



MARRIAGE 87 

My first acquaintance with him was in the Divinity 
School in 1833. But I cannot say that I knew him well 
till somewhere about the year 1839, when he was in 
Cincinnati. How long he was settled there I forget. I 
afterwards knew him better in New York, I think in 
1844-45, where he preached several years, in a hall to a 
small congregation of " Come-outers " and where my 
wife and I regularly attended. He seemed to me then 
one of the most fervent and eloquent of preachers; all 
the other preaching in New York was tame in compari- 
son. His themes were mostly in the line of social reform. 
He always took an intense interest in the spiritual eleva- 
tion of the people, but no less in establishing a high 
standard of morality for the cultured classes. He was 
an uncompromising opponent of the encroachments of 
Slavery upon the country, and his sermons against the 
Mexican War and the annexation of Texas were very 
powerful. It is difficult to describe a man who seemed 
so perfect. He would have appeared like one of the 
saints of the old time, had not his keen, cultivated, but 
restless intellect, and his broad, liberal tendencies allied 
him to all the nearest and most practical interests of life. 
He united in his nature, the ideal philosopher, poet, and 
preacher. He was keenly alive to everything true, good, 
and beautiful. He held an ideal standard in everything. 
His tenderness, his enthusiasm, were almost feminine, 
and though his emotional nature seemed the main spring 
of his life, he had a wonderful strength, balance, and 
self -discipline. He seemed to live habitually in an upper 
region of thought and feeling. He had a limpid purity 
and a lofty standard which almost set him outside the 
pale of intimate fellowship. . . . He was always cheerful, 
always hopeful — a genuine optimist. . . . He was never 
idle, never off his track. His temperament seemed to yield 



88 CHRISTOPHER PEARCE CRANCH 

him no easy cushion on which his nervous intellect and 
his keen conscience could repose. 

But I can only imperfectly give the impression he 
made upon me, at that time. . . . Since those early days 
I have seen almost nothing of him. I do not think he 
ever in the least declined to a lower range in his ideal 
standard, or in his daily life. 

To John S. D wight 

New York, April 8, 1844. 
... I see you are thoroughly immersed in Fourier, 
and hear of you as established at Brook Farm. You have 
got the start on me altogether in this reform, theoreti- 
cally and practically, for as yet I am but a humble and 
very ignorant inquirer, standing hardly on the thresh- 
old of Phalanstery, an imperfect note in the great har- 
mony you and others are aspiring towards; an instru- 
ment, weak, dull, ineffective, discordant, out of tune in 
the grand symphony, your great Panharmonic Orches- 
tra are about to perform. But I hope that I shall tune 
up my fiddle by degrees, and learn to keep time and 
tune with my brothers. I have long been looking to 
something better than I can arrive at, under our present 
social organization. ... It is getting to be more and 
more the great vital question, the heaviest pressure upon 
my thoughts, the gloomiest shades around my heart, 
this matter of Social Reform, and I wish now more than 
all things else, in my higher moments, to study the sys- 
tem of Fourier, of which, I am ashamed to say, I, at 
present, know so little. Channing has been a great light 
to me here, as well as to many others. I have no words 
which would adequately express what I owe to him, as 
prophet, thinker, eloquent speaker, pure and heaven- 
gifted spirit. But I must do more than receive. I must 



MARRIAGE 89 

also give out and create. May heaven only help me to 
be true to myself. I should study and write more were 
it not that I have so earnestly taken hold of the brushes 
and palette. This, as you know, is now " my vocation, 
Hal."/! have taken it up with the intention of succeed- 
ing in my limited sphere, as a painter of landscapes. To 
be sure, as yet it puts no money into my pockets, but 
it is to me a perpetual spiritual joy and satisfaction. 
It is its own reward. Besides I have some hopes that in 
a year or two it may bring something to me in the way 
of vulgar dollars and cents, which I by no means affect 
to despise. I have improved considerably since the mis- 
erable daubs you saw in the garret of the old United 
States Hotel, Boston. I shall send three pieces to the 
Exhibition of the Academy this spring. 

I shall also exhibit in a few days another work, in an- 
other and kindred line, viz., a small volume of Poems 
from the press of Carey and Hart, in Philadelphia. It 
has been delayed somewhat, and should have been out 
some weeks since. My publisher insists upon limiting 
me to 112 pages which I fear will not contain me. Be- 
sides this, I wish I had given vent in a few more poems 
to some of my later and riper thoughts. These poems 
seem hardly to do justice to what I might say and sing 
now, but are of the past, in a great degree. 

To John S. D wight 

New Yoke, November 30, 1845. 
... I was glad to see your criticism on the virtuoso 
school, and your last word about Leopold de Meyer. 
Such views are much needed among us, when there is 
so little soundness of faith. What you say of Ole Bull 
I think is perfectly just, neither too little nor too much. 
Mrs. Child, however, is angry with you because you do 



90 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

not make him the god he is to her, but assign him his 
proper niche and pedestal. But she is one who sees 
everything in the prismy hues of feeling; with her mind 
there is but little of the pure white light of philosophic 
judgment. How can she then consent, that this subject 
of her highest enthusiasm should be called one who 
"moves in the sphere of virtuosodom"? To her he is the 
top of the world : the rarest perfume of all genius. No one 
denies that in his sphere he is truly great. I have never 
heard anything to compare with the depth and purity 
and passion of his tones. Then what grace, what power, 
what finish of execution! But what are his compositions 
beside the master composers? Even Vieuxtemps far ex- 
cels him here, it seemed to me. Write me what you think 
of the Norwegian minstrel, more at large. There is such 
a nimbus of light around him at present, that few per- 
sons are clear-sighted enough to speak moderately of 
him. 

December 7. 
I wrote thus far a week ago, but my unfinished sheet 
has been lying perdu. I could not send it as it was, be- 
cause I had a few words to add to what I have said about 
Ole Bull. The fact is I was in company with him at 
Mrs. Child's the very evening of the day I had been so 
coolly writing about him, and the deep impression the 
man made upon me was hardly in harmony with the 
very moderate tone in which I had been speaking of his 
music. . . . He is the most delightful person I almost 
ever met. He attracted me at once. We now saw what 
we could not see in a concert room, from the distance we 
were, and hear him speak only in his music.^ This seems 
only a part of him. We could now observe the beauty 
of his countenance with its varied expression, his soft 



MARRIAGE 91 

eyes beaming with genius and his whole heart shining 
through them with such tenderness, such open truth 
and friendliness, a sweet smile. His strong electric mo- 
tions are rounded in by an almost feminine grace and 
gentleness; his perfect harmony of organization, bodily 
and mental; his healthy self-abandoned unconsciousness, 
so much better than the conscious self-possession of 
many — in fine his graceful and cordial manners : all 
these combine to make him exceedingly interesting. 

We soon had him seated at the piano, where he sat at 
least an hour, singing wild Norwegian airs, and passages 
from "Don Giovanni." He says he plays only by ear, 
but he seems perfectly at home in all chords and modu- 
lations, as if he knew the instrument intuitively. His 
voice is agreeable, and very expressive. Among other 
things, he sang and played part of his fine Concerto in 
E minor, his voice taking the violin part and his fingers 
the orchestral. He also told me anecdotes of Norway, 
its mountain scenery, its music and dances; its houses 
and peasantry, with most dramatic spirit. 

I parted from him with deep regret, for it was the first 
and last time I met him in society. 

To Edward P. Cranch 

Fishkill Landing, N.Y., July 26, 1846. 

I must write you once more before sailing; even though 
it be a short letter. All is arranged for our departure on 
the first of August, on the packet ship Nebraska via Mar- 
seilles. Our friend George William Curtis goes with us. 
The ship is a fine one, new, having made but two voy- 
ages, and the Captain — who is a very nice man — says 
we shall make the voyage in thirty-two days. 

I wrote you from Washington on the receipt of your 
letter about Italy. I hope you received my letter. In it, 



92 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

I presented the matter in a light, different from that in 
which you viewed it. And I hope now that you agree 
with me, that it is not so mistaken an idea we are carry- 
ing into effect. . . . 

My views about landscape painting are and will be 
unchanged, wherever I am. Nature and nothing but 
nature shall be my guide. The book you spoke of called 
"Modern Landscape Painters," by a graduate of Ox- 
ford, I have been reading with great pleasure, and gen- 
eral approval. I shall now in some measure be able to 
judge for myself whether he is right. I cannot yet real- 
ize that I am so soon to leave the country, and for a 
month or more to be tossed on the sea; then to land in a 
strange clime. How exciting is the prospect of a first sea 
voyage! Heaven grant us a safe passage! We have 
every reason to anticipate one. It is hard indeed to part 
with our friends, but the worst part, to me, is over, since 
we left Washington. You and John and Abby, I should 
scarcely see even if I remained, for separation seems our 
destiny, whether parted by mountains or by seas. Let us 
all pray for a happy meeting, in a year or two at least. 
God bless you, dear brother, and grant you every happi- 
ness and success. 



CHAPTER VI 

FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE — THE VOYAGE — ROME 

We come now to a very interesting period in my 
father's life, — his first experiences at sea, with my 
mother and his friend, George William Curtis; and 
the opening of that life of romance and of art, so 
fascinating to one of his temperament. It was a slow 
voyage of nearly seven weeks' duration; but one of 
great charm to these three friends. 

I give some extracts from my father's Journal at 
Sea. "We left New York, Lizzie and myself, with 
George William Curtis, August the first, 1846, in the 
packet ship Nebraska, bound for Marseilles. We 
number, I believe, fourteen passengers, including 
five children." One of the passengers was a "strong 
English woman, who has crossed the Atlantic twenty- 
four times, and boasts of never having been seasick 
in her life. She seems able to take command of the 
ship, should any accident befall the Captain ! and she 
was dubbed by our party the 'Commodore.' " She 
and the other passengers made "a very pleasant 
company." Later my father says, "We left at twelve 
o'clock m. and had a pleasant afternoon and eve- 
ning on deck, — passed Fort Hamilton, where Mrs. 
Curtis * is staying. We saw her waving her handker- 
chief from shore, and responded from the poop deck; 
passed the Narrows, Coney Island, Sandy Hook, and 
the Highlands of Neversink. Saw the city and all the 
spires and houses on shore diminish to white dots 
against the blue, misty distance. Night set in ere we 

1 Mr. Curtis's step-mother. 



94 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

took our last leave of shore. We sailed slowly out. We 
sang several duets on deck in the moonlight, and so 
our dear native land was left behind with music on 
our lips." 

August 2. One long horrid day of seasickness to almost 
all the passengers. It all seems one day of cheerless blank. 
A day of desperate abandonment to the sway of the 
grim sea. What I recollect most vividly was on stagger- 
ing up the gangway, from my berth in the morning; the 
view from the stern windows looked somewhat thus : 




My wonderment was great, how the sea ran its hori- 
zon so at an angle of forty-five degrees, till I got on 
deck and found the ship all on one side, leaning on her 
elbow, and like a duck along the green, foamy water. 

August 3. Woke up well and have kept well all day. 
Praised be Providence! Perhaps it was the "Petroleum" 
did it; perhaps the stomach got disgusted with its day's 
work and took a new tack; which, pray Heaven, it may 
not deviate from until we get safely into port. ... < 

The Captain is a nice man, very sociable and enter- 
taining, fond of talking, simple-hearted and honest and 
good-natured; a regular Yankee, withal, in his speech. 
One of the most remarkable things about him is his pro- 
nunciation of the French, — "Mr. Goozoot," Guizot; 
and the "table dot" 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 95 

August i. A warm, still day. Scarcely any breeze 
stirring, so we crept along at a snail's pace, our sails 
flapping, sailors doing little, passengers dozing and en- 
joying the dolce far niente. We sat, all of us, on deck 
under the awning, looking on the calmly swelling waters, 
the petrels skimming about and faintly chirping about 
the ship and picking up the crumbs, and diving after 
them — now and then in flocks resting on the waves for 
a moment at a distance from us. Saw a nautilus floating 
by with its pink-edged sail, which it now and then furled, 
then spread again. A school of large, black fish, resem- 
bling the porpoise, looking as hard and black and 
smooth as if they were turned out of wood in a lathe, 
sailing by in pairs, sticking up their sharp fins now and 
then and their hippopotamus, pig heads, and snorting 
like horses. And once we caught sight of a young whale, 
a grampus, I suppose. 

August 5. A beautiful morning; wind fair, course east, 
going at eight knots an hour. On going on deck the air 
was as soft and summery as if it came over a clover 
field in a green island. The waves swell and toss and 
break gloriously. 'T is surely a pure delight, a bless- 
ing, for which we cannot be too grateful to heaven that 
we have been so far favored with such a prosperous 
voyage 

To-day we passed two sails; a topsail schooner and 
a ship. The latter came near enough for us to hoist a 
signal and receive an answer. ... It was beautiful, this 
telegraphing on the seas. They will announce us on 
arriving, and our friends will know that so far we are 
safe. 

August 8. The other day we fished with a long piece of 
black thread for Mother Carey's chickens in the stern 
of the ship. We caught three or four and let them go. 



96 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

They catch themselves by getting entangled in the thread 
which they cannot see, and so we draw them up. 

With us three, checkers, backgammon, novels, eating 
and sleeping, with a little promenading and music, are 
the chief beguilers of our time. We are now exactly a 
week out and have come near a thousand miles. But 
as to our latitude and longitude, I am ignorant. One of 
the important items which I forgot, was to bring a map 
of the world. 

Ten o'clock. To-night I have been up on deck with G., 
singing duets in the moonlight. It is one of those magic 
moonlights standing out by itself, not connected in asso- 
ciation with anything of the past, but like a dream. Un- 
der the sail we stood and looked out as from a tent or 
protecting roof, abroad over the mild ocean, the horizon 
a long, dark, shorelike-looking black cloud, but above it 
the large, unclouded moon, just edging the extreme dis- 
tance with the intensest silver fire, then interrupted by 
the dark shadow of a cloud, then bursting out again, and 
flaking the restless waves for miles and miles with its 
glorious alchemy. Both to eye and heart it was a scene, 
which I never remember to have seen before, made still 
more romantic and wild by the harmonies we awoke. 
'T was more like the old moon which used to enchant 
me, and keep me awake at night, when just emerging 
from boyhood. I used to feel music, poetry and the com- 
pany of young girls with a vividness of delight which 
hardly comes in after years. 

Monday, August 10. Met a Danish brig; attempted to 
come within speaking distance of her, but she rounded 
to in an unmannerly way, as if she wished to have noth- 
ing to do with us. So we merely showed our flag, and 
she hers. The second mate says she is a hog. 

Last night was very beautiful in the moonlight. The 




CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRAXCH 

Pencil sketch by William Wetmore Story 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 97 

sails, filled with the wind, were rounded like great sea- 
shells; on their wide, white curves lay the shadows of 
her masts and intricate rigging, looking like the shad- 
ows of the forest trees and branches in winter against 
the moonlit snows. 

Tuesday, 11th. To-day I feel as if I had really seen the 
sea, — the great, heaving, restless, foaming sea! A stiff 
breeze has been blowing all day, which has ruffled up the 
water tremendously: all hands staggering and pitching 
about. The ship plunged and tossed up the foam and 
flung the soft spray over herself, as if she really felt it 
all. The waves rolled around her magnificently. 

Thursday, August 13. We are still sailing on with a 
fair wind, clear skies and soft temperature. To-day I 
went up into the mizzentop and sat some time, looking 
out on the sea. One sees something of the ship and her 
motion from this point. 

That most doughty mariner B. has been telling me a 
long yarn to-night of a sea adventure which once befell 
him between New York and Boston, to which I have 
been "listening like a three years child." He seems per- 
fectly inexhaustible in his stories of legendary sea-lore. 
The Captain is also very entertaining, and what is better, 
quite reliable in his facts. He is not gifted with Mr. B.'s 
imagination and conceit. We derive quite a stock of use- 
ful information from the Captain's yarns. They are 
solid stuff that will wear, but B. touches somewhat on 
fairyland; his soaring fancy scorneth the dry limitations 
of the actual. 

Two glorious sunsets I have seen from the mizzentop. 
From this point I get an idea of the vastness and loneli- 
ness of the ocean, which I cannot on deck. I am not 
sailor enough yet, however, to climb to the crosstrees. 
The days glide by pleasantly enough with such favoring 



98 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

breezes and skies as these. We are now about fifty miles 
north of Corvo, one of the Azores. This afternoon I am 
sitting on one of the quarter boats which hang from the 
ship's side over the water. I look out over and over 
the wide, blue, wrinkling expanse of ocean, now rippled 
by a gentle breeze which flaps the sails above me, which 
shade me beneath their ample wings. A delicious sensa- 
tion of quiet summer joy almost lulls me to sleep, — 

"The sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky," — 

around me, with only here and there a few white sea birds, 
skimming about in search of their prey. Could anything 
be more calm and holy than this loneliness, this stillness ! 

August 19. For a day or two we have been almost be- 
calmed, just moving along as slowly as possible under 
the most delightful skies. . . . 

These still, warm nights are beautiful on the ocean. 
The stars seem so thick and multitudinous. The Milky 
Way seems brighter and more distinct than ever I 
saw it. This motionless group of star clouds casts a 
bright reflection on the waves, and makes a pathway 
of dim light almost to the vessel. In the wake, the foam 
streams off in the dark water like smoke, and the phos- 
phoric sparkles seem to spring from some hidden fire 
under the ship. 

August 28. We are not more than forty or fifty miles 
from the Straits of Gibraltar, but are almost becalmed. 
The day, however, though warm, is beautiful. A splen- 
did pilot fish has been swimming about the ship; he is the 
forerunner of the shark. His gambols and perpetual mo- 
tion, his striped pied coat, and his life of perfect immu- 
nity and safety, make him the harlequin of the ocean. 
A sharp hook is thrown out, but the pirate of the deep 
remains uncaptured. 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 99 

August 29. This morning at sunrise we entered the 
Straits with a fine, fresh breeze, and hearts bounding 
with delight. Long before the sun was up we were sum- 
moned on deck and saw the first dim blue of the wel- 
come land before us, at first like a cloud, then gradually 
shaping itself into distinct and substantial forms. Oh, 
what a gust of fresh pleasure to see that we were, indeed, 
fast nearing dry land, and that land, the grand moun- 
tains of Spain and Africa! There stood the shores of the 
two great continents before us, and we about to enter 
between them by a narrow strait, ten miles wide. Right 
over this strait, these old classic waters of the Medi- 
terranean, rose a cloudless sun. As we neared, faster 
and faster, the blue mountains on either side were more 
and more sketched in detail. We all crowded on the 
forecastle; myself, for one, using my whole concentrated 
power of eyes in my eagerness to lose nothing. Here 
was at length the Old World. Spain, Barbary were be- 
fore us. At night, as I recall it all, — now that we have 
left the land again behind us, — it all seems like a dream. 
On the right was Cape Spartel and all the rugged Afri- 
can mountains heaped and crowded one behind another. 
On the left, the hills of Spain, the heights of Meca, 
equally fine, some of them splintered and jagged at their 
summit. Drawing nearer, houses, castles, and the town 
of Tangier, on one side; on the other, the town of Tarifa, 
with its square fortification and military aspect; above it, 
the hills, brown as autumn, and studded over with olive 
and other small trees in rows; the old watch-towers peep- 
ing out, here and there, square and Moorish-looking; 
and at length, the grand heights of Sierra Bullones, — 
vulgarly, Apes Hill, — and farther on, the great rock, 
fortresses and town of Gibraltar, looming up gray, grim, 
defiant, impregnable: its steep sides all bristling in guns 



100 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

and caves and portholes, ready, at the least sign of re- 
missness in the customary courtesy of raising a flag, to 
fire at any ship that passes. Before and behind us, other 
vessels, all bound the same way with us, some of them 
picturesque-looking, Spanish feluccas, with their triangu- 
lar, lateen sails, winging along like large birds, over the 
deep. All this and much more, which cannot now be dis- 
tinctly recalled, have made this morning one of the most 
delightful in my life. The occasion seemed to diffuse a 
social and friendly feeling through the whole ship. On 
the forecastle, sailors and passengers were all mingled, 
and seemed to take in the spectacle as one. 

The whole day has been cloudless and beautiful. A 
fine breeze, joined with the current which sets into the 
Mediterranean, has carried the good ship along at the 
rate of twelve knots an hour. To-night, a glorious moon, 
in a most perfectly cloudless sky, makes these beautiful 
waves still more romantic and classic. For a little while 
a watch-tower lit its red star on the shore, which, as 
yet, we have, however, but dimly seen. 

August 30. It has been too hazy to-day to permit us 
to see the coast. The great, towering mountains of old, 
romantic Spain seem to have drawn over their faces a 
thick and jealous veil of mist and cloud, as if unwilling 
to reveal to us, eager and curious searchers for the pic- 
turesque, their steep sides of broken summits, their dark 
ravines and rocky fortresses, and all that they contain 
which would delight the eye and stimulate the imagina- 
tion. 

This afternoon, however, the haze partly thinned 
away, and showed us the bold mountainous shore of 
Cape De Gat, with here and there, on the steep sides, a 
solitary watch-tower overlooking the sea. These towers 
at night are lit up, as a signal for the detection of smug- 






FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 101 

gling vessels. Two soldiers are stationed at each of them. 
They add much to the picturesque appearance of the 
cliffs. On our left we had a dim, far-off view of the moun- 
tains of Granada, the Sierra Nevadas, which are very 
lofty. The Pyrenees I missed, owing to the second mate's 
hesitation to wake me up at daylight. I would have sat 
up all night rather than miss them. 

September 6. . . . We have been blessed with fine 
glimpses of the rugged, mountainous coast of Spain. 
The mountains all along retain their brown, severe, bare, 
broken aspect. So bleak and lonely they seem as if they 
could give shelter to none, save to beggarly shepherds or 
desperate brigands. Yet there are cities with ships and 
commercial relations, shut in there. They make me 
think often of Don Quixote, these bare mountains. So 
must they have seemed to his fancy as they do to ours, 
as they lie afar off in the dim distance, a kind of fairy- 
land. 

These islands in the sea seem to bask so dreamily. 
Beyond Ivica we had a glimpse of Majorca. To-day 
we saw a rock, strongly resembling a sail. There are 
others near it; among them, one, quite an island: in it 
there is a harbor, which, they say, formerly gave shelter 
to Corsairs. 

Thursday, September 10. Calms, calms, nothing but 
calms! Making no headway, but rather drifting back- 
ward with the force of the current. To-day we are 
passing Barcelona, with its fortress of Montjui. We 
are about twelve miles from the shore; but with a glass 
can see towers, houses, churches, monasteries, fishing 
smacks. 

Perhaps, after all, it is best that we can only see these 
shores from a distance, and through the soft-tinted veil 
of romance which the name Spain throws over all. A 



102 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

nearer view might destroy some of our visions. Yet I 
think not, for all would be so new and foreign, and even 
bad inns, fleas, beggarly priests and thieves, the lazy 
muleteers and abominable roads, would remind us of Gil 
Bias and the Knight of La Mancha. 

We have at length got fairly round Cape Sebastian, 
and are to-day crossing the Gulf of Lyons and beating 
up to Marseilles. Here it is always windy. It is Sun- 
day, — our seventh Sunday aboard, — and a glorious 
day it has been! The wind has been blowing hard from 
the north all day, but as soft and mild a breath as France 
ever breathed, and laden, too, with a delicious perfume 
of the fields. This fragrance of clover and hay, fifty miles 
off from shore, was to me something exceedingly new 
and delightful. France surely has sent out a sweet, sub- 
tle spirit of health and greeting, to welcome us into our 
long-desired harbor. The waves pitch us about some- 
what, but as in joyous sportiveness, as if they were 
pleased at bearing us in. The air has been perfect to- 
day, warm, yet bracing. 

To-night the sea stars are flashing in the foam behind 
the ship. I have never seen these pure, cold fires under 
the salt waves kindle and float on so vividly before. 
They seem like sparks from some submarine furnace, 
struck from the ship's keel by the foaming waters. 

Arrived at Marseilles on the morning of Septem- 
ber 16. 

Left on the afternoon of the 17th in the Poliphemus, 
a miserable old Italian steamer. We were landed at 
Genoa, the evening of the 18th, and were shown to the 
Hotel di Felicita. 

Genoa. Our room looks upon the harbor; shipping, 
customs offices, villas, churches, vineyards, lie in the dis- 
tance, rising behind one another on our right; right under 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 103 

us is an immense court, where the market people seem 
to be collected. Carts with enormous wheels, drawn by 
mules, and donkeys with loaded paniers, and noses stuck 
down into straw muzzles, where it may be supposed they 
are feeding, not suffocating. . . . Here, Genoa, we spent 
the greater part of the day in sight-seeing. Hired a cicerone 
for four francs, who showed us four or five churches — 
San Lucca, San Ciro, the chapel of Andrea Doria and 
the Cathedral. . . . These churches are very splendid. 
We visited three palaces : the Palazzo Brignole, the royal 
palace, and the Palazzo Durazzo. Here we saw some of 
the finest of the works of the old masters, Rubens, Van- 
dyke (the Italians spell his name Wandik), Titian, Paul 
Veronese, Carlo Dolce, Guido, the Carraccis, Andrea 
del Sarto, etc., etc. I think I was most struck with the 
Vandykes and Guidos. Two full-length portraits of the 
Marquis Brignole on horseback and the Marchesa Brig- 
nole, and some of his portraits of children seemed to 
me his best. . . . 

Saw a statue of Christopher Columbus and a house 
erected in his honor, also the place on which it is sup- 
posed his house stood. A monument is to be erected on 
this spot, with a statue of the great world discoverer, by 
Bartolini, upon it. The first stone of this was not long 
since laid by the King of Sardinia and consecrated by 
the Archbishop. The exterior of the Palazzo Doria we 
saw, but the building was undergoing repairs and we 
could not enter. A statue of Andrea Doria as Neptune, 
of gigantic dimensions, stands in a niche in the sloping 
gardens of the palace. 

In another place, in niches on the side of two houses 
stand, not far asunder, a statue of Columbus and an- 
other of Doria. Under the former stands this inscrip- 
tion : — 



104 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

"Dissi, volli, il creai 
Ecco un secondo 
Sorger nuovo dalP onde 
Ignoto mondo." * 

. . . Columbus and Doria are the gods of the Genoese. 
... In the narrow streets, under the tall houses, we 
were constantly at almost every turn coming upon old 
doorways and shrines and bas-reliefs of exquisite and 
quaint workmanship — old melancholy relics, which 
were forever, in the midst of modern poverty and de- 
gradation, pointing back to days of serene and palmy 
splendor. Up these broad steps the old doges once 
stepped, robed and crowned, to their thrones and coun- 
cil chambers. Before these shrines knelt men of the stamp 
of Doria and Columbus. Merchant princes once looked 
from these balconies over this most beautiful of har- 
bors, where their spice-laden argosies lay riding at 
anchor. 

The following brief extracts are from the Auto- 
biography: — 

Reached Leghorn the 20th; from there we went by 
vettura to Florence. Then (after about a month there) 
we went by vettura to Rome, taking five or six days for 
a journey of a hundred and eighty miles. We arrived in 
Rome about the last of October. We had intended 
making only a short visit, and expected to return to 
Florence. Besides the wonderful attractions for us, in 
which Rome stood alone, I found that this was the place 
of all others in Italy for the life of an artist. There is 
nothing in the world like Rome. Here was picturesque 
material on every side in superabundance. And here 

1 He spoke, lie willed, he created. 
Behold a second unknown world 
Rise from the sea. 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 105 

were American friends and artists. The famous places 
to be seen, St. Peter's, the Coliseum, and other cele- 
brated ruins, the Vatican, the Capitoline and other gal- 
leries, the villas outside the walls, the Carnival, — the 
endless sights to be seen, — these in themselves were 
enough to occupy us from day to day. But there were 
open-air pictures waiting to be painted everywhere 
around us, and on the wonderful Campagna, so that 
there was a perpetual stimulus to draw and paint. The 
climate was so mild that working out of doors was usu- 
ally practicable. And I soon joined a night-school where 
students drew and painted in water colors from cos- 
tumed models. The cost was about a dollar and a half 
per month! During the two winters we were in Rome 
I made a large number of studies. 

Rome, November, 1846. We took advantage of the 
first fine moonlight to visit the Coliseum, steering our 
course by the map, and without that troublesome and 
expensive appendage, a cicerone. We took our way to- 
ward the ruins, stopped to contemplate the old Forum, 
the Arch of Septimius Severus, the Pillar of Phocas, and 
all the ruins in that vicinity, — all steeped in the loveli- 
est of moonlights. We passed under the small Arch of 
Titus, and stood before the Coliseum. For some time 
we stood, or walked around on the outside, reserving 
the impression of entering, like something too rare and 
sacred to be hastily snatched. But the temptation 
proved to be too strong to be long resisted, and entering 
by one of the smaller arches, before we reached the open 
area, we enjoyed through the openings of the walls and 
arches glorious gleams of the opposite walls. At last we 
drew slowly to the centre, and never have I beheld be- 
fore anything to compare with that scene. First, the 
night was perfect and unclouded, the air mild, the moon 



106 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

nearly full and brimming over with light. Around us 
stretched and towered up the solemn, imperial, old ruin, 
circling us like a gigantic spell of the hoary past. Ages 
on ages seemed looking down on us. We walked around 
in the deep shadows, with feelings hushed into silent 
reverence. We climbed up and saw the moon looking 
through the rifts and bare, desolate arches, and "the 
stars twinkling through the loops of time." 

From Mrs. Cranch's Journal: — 

Rome, November I, 18^6. This morning we went to 
St. Peter's. Never shall I forget the impression that the 
vastness and richness and its harmonious grandeur made 
upon me. I had never seen any descriptions of it, and 
only heard of its immensity, so that I was totally un- 
prepared for the elaborate design and rich finish of the 
interior. The proportions are so perfect that its size 
does not at first strike you; until you measure some single 
object, you are not aware of the greatness of the whole. 
There was no service when we entered, and it was more 
agreeable to me to see it thus than to have the beauty 
marred by some of those nasal chants of the priests, — a 
fine old mass, a fugue, would be consistent to listen to 
there, but nothing less. As we walked around this grand 
pile of architecture, it seemed hard to realize that it was 
built by man; it seems as eternal as the mountains and 
hills ; as if God had made it. 

The pictures behind all the altars were of mosaic, ex- 
cept one, which is an oil; the statues, all of which are 
colossal though they do not look so, are not the finest. 
However, there is one by Canova with two dying lions, 
which is said to be the masterpiece. " The Genius of 
Death," with reversed torch, is beautiful, while the lions 
— especially one sleeping one — are perfect. One group 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 107 

of Thorwaldsen did not please me so much; it is not 
counted as one of the best. The whole interior of the 
church is less expressive of genius than of grandeur and 
a display of the papal emblems and riches. But how 
it overwhelms an American taste like mine to see such 
splendor! My head was fairly heavy with the weight 
of all this magnificence. One is lost in wonder and sur- 
prise and can only wander around among the niches and 
altars breathless and mute with astonishment. 

Pearse has already commenced his costume school, 
and goes regularly with thirty or forty young artists to 
draw and paint from models of Italian costume, every 
evening at eight o'clock. We have nearly — indeed, I 
may say, quite — decided to pass the winter here in 
Rome, instead of at Florence, as we had at first intended. 
There are many more advantages here for Pearse as an 
artist, and we both prefer Rome much, though we shall 
not be nearly as comfortable as to domestic arrange- 
ments, but, thank fortune, I do not make them of great 
importance and am willing to put up with anything for 
the sake of living in Rome. 

We are domiciled in the house of a kind-hearted little 
woman named Bordoni, who is most attentive to all my 
wants, and who is honest and simple. We take our din- 
ners at the Lepre, the largest trattoria in Rome, though 
not the most elegant. We have very good cooking and 
quite cheap too. Then we meet some three or four Ameri- 
can artists and have pleasant talks. Mr. Freeman, Mr. 
Hicks, and Kensett are interesting young artists whom 
we like much. Altogether the life here is very pleasant, 
apart from the great attractions of the place. The air 
on the hill of the Quirinal Palace, which we are quite 
near, is very fresh and good. 

We have seen the new Pope, who is so much beloved, 



108 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

and with good reason, for he has liberated all political 
offenders, and has commenced his reign with benevolence 
and justice. To-morrow is to be a great procession, 
which the Pope leads through several streets to the old- 
est church in Rome, St. John of Lateran. There, some 
grand ceremony is to take place, he is to receive the 
keys of the church, after which Pope, cardinals, mili- 
tary, and all are to march back again through the city 
to the Quirinal Palace. We are going to try to get a sight 
of the procession, and see some of the enthusiasm of the 
Romans en masse. The city is full of people who come 
to be present at this festival, and I hope to see some- 
thing quite grand in the way of a show. 

As yet, we have received no letters from home, and it 
is three months, and more, since we left New York. . . . 
The seventh of November blows coldly in America, 
while we are living without fires, and sit half the day 
with windows open. Honeysuckles and roses in full 
bloom in the open air, and orange and lemon trees hang- 
ing full of fruit in all the gardens. I have bought a little 
Roman vase, and have it filled with honeysuckle and 
flowers that we picked at the Baths of Caracalla. 

November 12. This evening I feel very tired, for we 
have been through the Vatican, and walked home after- 
wards. Yes, we have made our first visit to the Vatican, 
but my memory is confused with its treasures. I remem- 
ber quite distinctly, however, the Apollo, the Laocoon, 
and Domenichino's picture of the Last Communion of 
St. Gerome. . . . 

We got lost once or twice in the infinite number of 
rooms, and our heads were fairly heavy with the weight 
of riches and beauty around us. We could look at noth- 
ing well, but walked on, feeling almost dizzy with the 
variety and countless numbers of rare objects of antique 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 109 

beauty on all sides of us. The Sistine Chapel, where 
live the frescoes of Michael Angelo, we did not see. 

November 18. Evening. Pearse and George at the 
Lepre. I prefer now to dine at my room. Our little 
padrona cooks me a bistecca, as they Italianize beefsteak, 
and I make various nice dishes of tomatoes, rice, etc., 
on my small stove, so that I get a simple dinner for eight 
or ten baiocchi, without the trouble of a long walk to the 
trattoria. Indeed, it is surprising how comfortably we 
can live here in one room, and with what little expense. 

I have a lovely bunch of roses in my black vase, which 
was picked from Tenerani's garden — the Italian sculp- 
tor — yesterday morning, blooming in the open air, 
and for which I only gave one baioc. 

Since I last wrote here, I had a nice letter from home, 
yes, a nice letter from Carry (Mrs. Downing), but not 
half minute enough; she forgets I am three or four thou- 
sand miles off, and writes as if I were in New York. 
Grandma and Aunty are enjoying good health. I can 
see them in their quiet little home, on the banks of the 
glorious Hudson. There is no place I have yet seen 
seems to me more beautiful than the shores of the North 
River, with its clear, bracing, fine air, and strong, rich 
scenery; although it wants the noble, picturesque, old 
ruins of Rome, to give it poetical and classic associations. 
On Sunday last we walked out to San Giovanni di Lat- 
erani, and saw at sunset the grand view from its porch, 
with the ruined and broken arches of the ancient Aque- 
duct, lit up by the soft, mellow rays of an Italian sun. 
Behind the arches, as they went stretching along for 
miles on the Campagna, rose the blue, distant moun- 
tains called the Sabine Hills, and still above them were 
piled the snowy-topped Apennines, all bathed in a 
golden and purplish mist. It was indeed exquisitely 



110 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

beautiful, and we walked home in the quiet, cool evening, 
with our minds full of the beauty we had seen. That 
same evening Kensett and Hicks came to see us, and 
I had prepared for them some good, strong tea, and some 
American apple sauce, which they seemed to relish 
much, and we had a merry time around our table, that 
night. 

A young American, Mr. Boardman, has died, since I 
last wrote; his death and sickness were quite touching 
from their loneliness. George was with him the night he 
died, and was very busy the day after, attending to 
things which were necessary for the arrangement of his 
funeral. On Saturday last he was buried in the English 
burying-ground, where rest Shelley and Keats. Almost 
all the Americans in Rome attended his funeral; and there 
they left him, or only what was mortal of him, who had 
but a week or two before been dining with us at the 
trattoria, and who was as unconscious of his own dan- 
gerous state of health as it was possible for him to be. 

To-night, as usual, Christopher is at the costume 
school. George went to take tea with Mrs. Crawford. 
I was to have gone with him, but was too tired to at- 
tempt such a long walk, and am sorry, for I like Mr. C.'s 
looks better every time I see him, and should like to 
know more of him. He reminds me a little of William 
Channing, and how could I help liking him, if he reminds 
me of one I admire so much? Pearse and I will go there 
soon together, for Mrs. C. has invited us to come when- 
ever we feel inclined to. 

November £6. George and Pearse have gone to take a 
Thanksgiving dinner with Terry, who has invited some 
half-dozen other Americans to keep this New England 
festival at his rooms; no doubt they will have a merry 
time, and I am sorry I could not join them. Mr. Terry 






FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 111 

sent me word he was sorry he had not a wife; if he had, 
he would invite me. I sent him word I hoped he would 
not fail to have one before next Thanksgiving, for my 
sake as well as his own. 

Since Monday last, I have been out very little, as it 
has rained often; though I went with George to see the 
Casino in the garden of the Rospigliosi, which has 
Guido's Aurora, painted in fresco on the ceiling. We 
enjoyed it highly, though it nearly broke our necks to 
look at it. The coloring is exquisite; nothing can be 
more beautiful than the figures of the hours, which sur- 
round the car of Apollo. The horses are splendid, so full 
of fire and life; indeed there is a sort of rhythm in the 
picture; one almost fancies as one looks at it, to hear a 
burst of music from it. It is as full of freshness and of 
poetry as the morning, which it represents. 

We have a hive of artists here, of all nations, too: 
Italian, French, Scotch, German, and American. Be- 
sides there is a variety of music; there are three guitars, 
one grand piano, a violoncello, two flutes, and an accor- 
dion. Some mornings I hear the German in the room 
opposite, sounding some fine chords on his piano, or 
playing some of the good German music, which he plays 
finely. Then again as I sit at my painting, sometimes I 
hear a groaning and sighing of the Frenchman's violon- 
cello upstairs; it sounds like a mighty musical wind blow- 
ing through the forests. In the afternoon or evening, the 
Scotchman's guitar tinkles an accompaniment to some 
pretty little Neapolitan song that his master is teaching 
him. When Christopher comes in tired, he seizes his 
flute and warbles some sweet air upon it, — some of 
Schubert's songs or some sweet Italian air; so that we 
have music, painting, and sculpture in the house, — two 
young sculptors have their studio on the ground floor, 



112 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

— then George is the poet, and Pearse another, though 
he has not written a line for many months now. Still, 
the muse will visit him again at the fitting time. We 
have all the arts here, it is quite a little Parnassus. 

Last night George came in and read me some extracts 
of Browning's poems. One called "Christina," and a 
love-song to a Spanish girl, walking in a garden, were 
both full of quaintness and originality, and brimful of 
beauty. I only wish we had his poems, and George to 
read them to me, for it requires some study to discover 
their meaning, his style is so involved. I feel very much 
the want of books here. Monaldini's circulating library 
has very little but novels in it, and his books are too ex- 
pensive to buy, so that I shall have to hunt up, in some 
other way, some French or English books, for I must read 
something. I have just finished Beckford's "Sketches 
in Italy," without much enjoyment. Sir Francis Head's 
"Bubbles from the Brunnen," are sprightly, pleasant 
reading, and now I am skimming over "Corinne," to 
see what Madame de Stael says of the antiquities of 
Rome, having read it always before for the love part 
of it. 

December ^. Burrill [Curtis] has arrived since my last 
record here. He came more than a week ago, after we 
had been expecting him for many days. Indeed, I had 
begun to feel very anxious about him, as we knew he had 
sailed from America the first of October, and when the 
26th of November came, and still no tidings of him, I 
felt somewhat alarmed. It was late one night. Gedrge 
and Pearse were singing, when we were startled by a 
loud cry from the street, of "George, George," and many 
bangs and thumps accompanying the voice. After some 
moments we ran to the window, and there by the side 
of an Italian, with a great black trunk on his head, stood 




THE CURTIS BROTHERS 
(GEORGE AVILLIAM AND BURRILL) 

From a painting by Thomas Hicks 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 113 

Burrill, looking up at us, and wondering how to get into 
the house, not yet being accustomed to Italian entrances, 
which are rather peculiar. He had arrived late in the 
diligence from Civita Vecchia, and could not bear the 
idea of going to a hotel without seeing us that night, so 
had set out in search of us, and the song had directed 
him, as he knew the voices, though he could not tell 
from what house they proceeded. We listened to the 
account of his voyage, and of all our friends across the 
water. He brought me letters from home, with mostly 
good news. 

Yesterday was an exciting day for all within the walls 
of Rome, for it was the day of the great inundation, such 
as has not been known for forty years or more. The 
Tiber, owing to the great rains of late, grew riotous, and 
leaping all bounds, came flowing into the city, filling up 
the lower stories of the houses with water and mak- 
ing prisoners of the upper inmates. Many streets have 
been, and are still, impassable, except with boats. The 
Ghetto, or Jews' quarter, is all afloat, and it is said there 
must be much suffering there. They are all locked up 
in that quarter every night, and cannot escape from it, 
except to the tops of the houses. We are so much on the 
hill, being halfway up the Monte Cavallo, we have not 
suffered any inconvenience from it, and except for the 
excitement and interest we have felt, have not been 
participators in the general commotion. 

December 27. Christmas has passed with us in this 
city of churches and of priests, and we have seen several 
of the fine shows of cardinals in their rich dresses; a pro- 
cession in Santa Maria Maggiore in which the Pope is 
carried in a rich chair, or canopy, and followed by the 
holy Bambino. The church, which is a very rich one, 
was most elegantly illuminated with wax candles and 



114 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

ornamented with rich and tasteful draperies. The mid- 
dle of the church was guarded by a line of Swiss sol- 
diers. The Pope's bodyguard, who kept a free passage- 
way for the procession, all kneeled as the Pope passed, 
and outside were thousands of people, crowding close 
upon the guard. We had a good view of the ceremony, 
heard the chanting, which was not very fine, and after 
staying from two to three hours, we came home with a 
party of our friends, who stayed with us till twelve, and 
then left to go to the midnight mass at San Luigi, where 
they heard good music. Pearse did not get home until 
two o'clock in the morning, when he slept some five hours, 
and set out for St. Peter's, to see the great display there 
for Christmas Day. I suppose this is the greatest church 
show that is to be seen in the world. 

On Christmas night, Pearse and I went to the Ameri- 
can consul's, Mr. Brown's. Yesterday Mrs. Crawford 
called in her carriage, attended by baby, nurse, and all 
the accessories of a grand lady, and invited me to ride 
with her to St. Peter's. So we arrived there just in time 
for vespers, and I heard some of the finest church music 
I ever listened to, and we walked around the church. 
Mrs. C. invited us to a party at her house on New 
Year's, to hear Mr. Solyman play the piano. I suppose 
it will be a large party, and having no party dress I shall 
probably not go. 

December 30. Last night, being a beautiful moonlit 
evening, I went with a party of gentlemen to see the 
Coliseum by moonlight. Pearse did not go, as he had 
been there twice before, at night, and besides was busy 
at his costume school. Our party was entirely Ameri- 
can; it consisted of George and Burrill, Hicks, Terry, 
and Schlossen, all those whom I meet every day at the 
Lepre. I see so few ladies that I am becoming quite 



FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 115 

accustomed to living without them. We went from the 
Lepre, where we dine daily at five, to the Caffee Nuovo, 
a large and handsome cafe, where smoking was not al- 
lowed, and after the gentlemen had taken their cup of 
caffee nero, we set out for the Coliseum, crossing the Capi- 
toline Hill, down past the Forum, through the Arch of 
Titus, to that grandest of all ruins, which looked so 
desolate and grim in the moonlight, its time-worn arches 
and galleries speaking so strongly of the past, that one 
could linger and dream there for hours. . . . 

From Mr. Cranch's Journal: — 

The benediction I would not have missed for a good 
deal. It was very fine. A large space immediately under 
the great Balcony was occupied by the soldiers, and out- 
side of them was an immense crowd. When the Pope 
came forward, borne upon his throne, and chanted out 
the blessing in a clear, loud voice, the soldiers and peo- 
ple all kneeled or stood uncovered; and at the close of 
each verse and of the benediction, the drums and can- 
non answered. 

November 22. We went the other day into the church 
of Santa Maria degli Angeli. It was built by Michael 
Angelo, and is the most beautiful church, I think, I ever 
saw. The paintings are, many of them, very fine. Here 
I saw Domenichino's St. Sebastian, a fresco of wonder- 
ful power and beauty. 

Visited "Propagandi" College to see NcNeal, a fellow 
passenger on the Nebraska, — a cold, formal, prison- 
like place. The library, however, is very rich and fine; 
full of the most rare and valuable old tomes. 

The most beautiful of places about Rome are the 
grounds of the Borghese Villa. Here you have the fin- 
est combination of nature and art. Shady lanes, half 



116 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

covered at this mellow season with fallen leaves, leading 
to stately palaces and antique temples; Grecian and 
Egyptian gateways; statues; fountains and artificial 
lakes. Deep groves of ilex and tall Italian pines sur- 
round you; and from one hill, crowned with a ruined 
summer house, you look back on gardens and groves, 
over to St. Peter's, and in another direction on the Cam- 
pagna and Mount Soracte. This hill is one of the love- 
liest spots. We spent half a day in wandering over the 
grounds, and returning by sunset, saw the dome of St. 
Peter's suffused in purple haze against the sun, with an 
arch and fountain in the foreground, for a frame to the 
picture, forming a most picturesque combination. 

January 11. Christmas Eve, — great doings and most 
brilliant illumination in the Sta. Maria Maggiore, and 
the church of San Luigi in Francese, at midnight, when 
we heard fine music. 

On Christmas Day at St. Peter's, an immense crowd, 
and a gorgeous show of costume, among the great of the 
Church and State, the Pope performing high mass, in 
the body of the church. The singing by the Pope's choir 
was very fine; and at the elevation of the Host, a slow, 
solemn strain from a band of wind instruments, was 
exceedingly impressive. 

On Twelfth Night went to the Fair. Great crowd, 
and a tremendous noise; everybody pushing, talking, 
and screaming; bands of boys and men with horns and 
whistles, penny trumpets and rattles, parading about; 
each one trying to blow his loudest, the whole perfectly 
deadening. What singular and apparently childish forms 
the Italians' fondness for excitement and amusement 
takes ! 

Miserere and other fine music, sung at a concert by the 
Pope's choir, February 4. This was the richest music of 






t FIRST VISIT TO EUROPE 117 

this character. Nothing could be grander than the har- 
monies, or more sweet and tender. The execution was 
wonderful. 

Born in Rome a son, George William Cranch, March 
11, 1847, named for George William Curtis. 

From the Autobiography: — 

Easter Sunday, April 4, I attended the services at St, 
Peter's, after which Pope Pio Nono gave his benediction 
from a high balcony to the crowd. . . . The great Piazza 
San Pietro was one dense black mass of human beings, 
mingled with carriages and the bristling bayonets and 
gay uniform of soldiers. At night was the wonderful 
illumination of the great dome. The first blaze of splen- 
dor was impressive, but the glory of this was dimmed 
by the second — the lesser lights being swallowed up 
in the blaze, like stars at sunrise. It was a glorious 
sight! 

The next evening we had the famous Girandola, or 
fireworks, at the Castle of St. Angelo, a spectacle which 
rivals the illumination of St. Peter's. The whole castle 
was at first illuminated with a thousand intense lights, 
which studded it thickly all over, and burned with the 
splendor of daylight, lighting up the whole landscape 
far and near, and turning the very Tiber into reflected 
fire. Then burst out thousands of rockets in all direc- 
tions like a tree of fire. Some of these bursting in the 
air sent out multitudes of fiery serpents, which hissed 
and twisted and writhed in the air. Then magnificent 
fire-wheels revolved. Then the whole castle was illumi- 
nated with glorious crimson lights, while the windows 
were the most delicate green. Then a cascade of fire fell 
rushing steadily like water, for some minutes, in three 
sheets, from the top to the bottom of the castle. And all 



118 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

between the sights, such a roar of cannon and rushing 
of rockets that the whole sky seemed to be on fire ! 

The whole show was on such an immense scale, and so 
perfectly bewildering in its beautiful execution, that I 
thought the contriver of these pyrotechnics must surely 
be a man of genius, and truly deserving the name of 
artist. 



CHAPTER VII 

PALESTRINA — OLEVANO — SECOND ROMAN 
WINTER 

The Autobiography continues: — 

Palestrina (the ancient Praeneste) is an old, queer- 
looking town on the slope of a pretty steep hill, on the 
top of which stand the ruins of an ancient fortress. 

Our landlady is a fat, jolly, muscular woman who has 
had sixteen children, thirteen of whom she has brought 
up, and are in the house, for which she has received a 
pension from the Papal Government. She prides herself 
greatly on her hearty, young, and plump appearance, 
after having "made," as the Italians say, sixteen chil- 
dren. And well she may. She is the most extraordinary 
woman as to her physique I ever saw, with the most 
jolly expression in her black eyes, and her fine teeth, all 
showing as she smiles; she bounces up to you, and bawls 
out in a voice which would be at the top of the lungs 
of any ordinarily large woman, — (i E bello, quello bam- 
bino suo! E bello! Anche e bella la sposa. Ma, signore, 
io fatto sedice." Then away she sails like a man-of-war, 
superintending her girls in the kitchen, scolding, tasting, 
and devising all manner of comfortable things for her 
guests. She gives us excellent fare for an Italian country 
town, and whatever we want is somehow procured for 
us. And the generous bottles of wine are enough to do 
one's heart good. Her eldest daughter, Carlotta, is a 
beauty, and promises to be like her mother one of these 
days. All the family seem so jolly and happy and ready 
to oblige that it is a striking contrast to our mean fare 
at Tivoli. 



120 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

From Mr. Cranch's Journal: — 

... I have not seen any place that combines so much 
a landscape painter can make use of as Tivoli. There 
is the great ravine with the old picturesque town over- 
looking it, and its one beautiful relic of classic times, 
the Sibyl's temple. There are the grottos, the deep, 
weird chasms, where waterfalls shoot down roaring, as 
into the mouth of hell, and disappear to the eyes. There 
are the numerous beautiful cascades, tumbling and 
foaming down the rocky ravine; the old rocks them- 
selves on which the town stands, looking like old wormy 
cheese or petrified pudding, full of holes and caves, out 
of which the water is here and there issuing, after going 
under the town. There are the beautiful views of the 
Villa of Maecenas and the distant Campagna, with the 
dome of St. Peter's looming up on the far horizon. There 
is the Villa d 'Este, a wonderful old place, with its fanci- 
ful fountains all in ruins, and its magnificent sombre 
cypresses, the most beautiful I have yet seen. 

July 25, Three miles from Palestrina we pass through 
Cavi, an exceedingly picturesque town. We left the 
main road and approached it along a high bank covered 
with splendid chestnuts. The town and mountains be- 
yond were beautiful in the light of the early morning. 
Leaving Cavi we approach another picturesquely situ- 
ated town, Genazano, seven miles distant. Leaving it 
on our left, we walked on, the mountains growing more 
bold and grand in their forms, and by a long winding road 
arrived at Olevano, lying on the slopes of a steep rock; 
the streets and stairs are narrower and dingier than any 
I have yet seen. A fine old ruined castle overtops the 
whole. ... At Subiaco I spent three days. I visited the 
old Church and Convent of San Benedetto, high up on 
a mountain side among huge gray rocks and overlook- 



OLEVANO 121 

ing a deep mountain chasm. An old, snuffy, smiling 
friar took me all over the establishment. The church 
and cloisters are very ancient. 

From Mrs. Cranch's Journal: — 

Olevano, September 12, The time has gone so quickly 
that I can scarcely believe it is nearly two months since 
I last wrote here. 

Pearse has been busy with the mountains and trees, 
for we have the grandest of mountains all around us. 
The town itself is built upon the peak of a mountain, 
and the scenery has been the study of landscape painters 
for hundreds of years. We have two Germans and one 
Belgian in our locanda, all artists. Yesterday morning 
as I sat at the window sewing on one of Georgie's little 
dresses, and admiring the distant mountains, it was 
pleasant to think of so many artists all studying around 
me. There were the Belgian and Pearse seated a short 
distance up the hill, studying a horse, with two Italian 
boys holding him; Signor Franz, a handsome, blonde 
young German, off among the mountains, drawing from 
the grand studies around him subjects for his illustra- 
tions of scripture; then the other German, Signor Gu- 
lielmo, in the studio next door, painting from one of the 
fine young Italian women. The two American painters, 
Ashton and Terry, who are staying at the other house 
with Banks and his wife, were out also with sketch books 
in hand. A locanda above us on the hill is full of artists, 
mostly German. Our little Giorgio has been sitting, 
or rather standing, for his portrait to one of the German 
artists. He goes to the studio and stays two hours at a 
time, playing with the maul-stick, while the German 
draws him. It is certainly very early for him to com- 
mence being a model, but I would like him to be in a 



122 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

studio early in life, for I have no higher ambition for 
him than to be a good man, and an artist, should he show 
tendencies that way. 

The winter of 1847-48 we passed in Rome in the Via 
Sistina. I found a studio near by. 1 

From Mr. Cranch's Journal: — 

From my studio-window I have a grand view of Rome. 
The house stands on the Pincio in the Via Gregoriana. 
Next door is the house where Salvator Rosa lived; and 
a few doors farther lived Claude and Poussin. From my 
window to the South I see St. Peter's and the Vatican 
towering on the horizon. Besides this dome I see eleven 
or twelve other smaller ones, and cupolas and towers 
innumerable. What a place for an architect is Rome! 

At my right the horizon terminates in Monte Mario, 
in front, with the hill of San Pietro in Montorio, and the 
beautiful tall pines of the Villa Pamfili Doria. On my 
left looms up the tower of the Capitol, and far beyond 
these is a little glimpse of the level Campagna. 

I walk out, and wherever I go, I tread upon earth 
consecrated by the footsteps of the great of other days. 
Near me, at the head of the Spanish stairs, stands the 
Church and Convent of Trinita di Monte, where is 
Daniele di Volterra's Descent from the Cross; and where 
on Sunday twilights the secluded nuns sing sweet ves- 
pers. Descending a broad flight of one hundred and 
thirty-two steps you are in the busy and fashionable 
Piazza di Spagna, where are rich bankers and ambassa- 
dors, and great hotels, and cafes, and white-gloved Eng- 
lish, and porters and pedlers and monks and costume- 
models, and dirty children and fighting dogs. In the 
1 Autobiography. 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 123 

centre the boat-shaped fountain gushes on, — night and 
day in its abundance and purity, careless of all the mot- 
ley life. At one end of the Piazza stands the huge Prop- 
aganda College, from which at times issue troops of 
students clad in long black robes and solemnly paraded 
two by two, on their daily walks. At the other end you 
enter the Babuino, and follow it along to the Piazza del 
Popolo, one of the most beautiful squares in Europe, with 
its churches, obelisk, statues, and spouting lions. At the 
end is the Porta del Popolo designed by Michael Angelo. 

Passing the old gate and turning to the right you enter 
the Villa Borghese, whose gates the munificence of the 
prince throws open daily to the public. Here you may 
saunter for hours amid fountains, statues, temples, noble 
Italian pines, firs, cypresses, ilexes and oaks, and flower 
beds. Here go the entire fashionable world in gay car- 
riages; yet here are deep green secluded retreats. Here 
stands the Casino, embowered in roses, and containing 
works of art. Here you pass Raphael's house and the 
picturesque little Villa Cenci — both long since unten- 
anted and in mournful decay. 

Near the Borghese is the old deserted Villa Poniatow- 
ski. Here in fine weather go English lady tourists to 
sketch, and landscape painters to make studies of the 
large aloes and bits of garden ornament which decorate 
the place. 

And now let us return by the gardens of the Pincio and 
the Villa Medici, now the French Academy, the public 
promenade of Rome. Here flows all the tide of fashion 
in the sunny afternoons. Here stroll the lazy priests, 
here lounge the young city beaus and belles; here roll 
the shining chariots of the rich forestieri, with livery and 
lap dogs; here come the nurses with babies of all ages, 
who romp under the trees and over the smooth gravel 



124 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

bed walks; while outside the gates wait the beggars 
clamoring for mezzo-baiocchi. And all the while a fine 
band discourses lively or plaintive music. 

From the Autobiography: — 

In the winter of 1848 Mr. Charles C. Perkins, of Bos- 
ton, gave occasional musical soirees at his rooms; we 
had choice programmes from the great German com- 
posers. I had not heard anything of Beethoven since we 
left America. Among the Italians there seemed to be a 
dearth of fine music. One gets tired of nothing but Verdi 
and the hymn to Pio Nono. It was absolutely a refresh- 
ment one night at the opera to listen to the brilliant but 
superficial music of Rossini's "Italiani in Algieri." But 
at Mr. Perkins's, we had the waters of the true Helicon. 

One evening at Tom Hicks's room, I truly enjoyed 
myself in a more social, though less elevated, style. By 
great good luck there were four of us who sang Moore's 
"Melodies." We had also glees and solos, and the eve- 
ning passed away delightfully. Social meetings will never 
approach perfection till the greater number who come 
together can join musically as well as intellectually and 
sympathetically. 

One night at the Apollo, with the Storys, we went to 
Verdi's "Nebuchodonosor." Some parts of it were quite 
fine. The raise en scene was very showy — but the music 
lacked depth and feeling. 

I enjoyed the festivities of the Carnival — but did n't 
go into it with quite the furor of the year before. With 
my linen blouse, scarlet neckhandkerchief and broad 
black hat looped up at the side with the tricolored cock- 
ade and three feathers, I joined the throng in the crowded 
Corso — with a basket of bouquets in my hand and a 
pocket full of plaster confetti in case of attack. There 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 125 

were bright eyes and handsome faces enough; handsome 
dresses too and grotesque ones. On the whole I had a 
deal of fun. 

Twice I went with a party of friends to see the gal- 
lery of the Vatican by torchlight. These divine statues 
revealed new beauties by night, which were hidden in 
the daylight. We seem to get nearer to their soul, and 
to the genius of the artist. A deeper, more subtle beauty 
and force of expression breathed from these still, white, 
marble forms. 

One day in the last of March, Story and I strolled in 
the deserted Villa Poniatowski. The day was beautiful 
and perfectly springlike. Gigantic aloes grow in the 
grass. Old gray mossy steps of stone, weather beaten 
statues and obelisks and vases lie half in sunlight and 
half in shadow under the dark pines and cypresses, 
through whose tops the wind sighs like the sea. 

Between the trees are glimpses of St. Peter's, and the 
many shining domes of the city, all glittering in the sun. 
And, afar, Monte Cavi, Soracte, and the beautiful Sa- 
bine Mountains with a dark-blue, soft plum color, here 
and there covered with snow of a dazzling whiteness. 
Around us, as we lay on the grass, wild roses and other 
flowers bloomed, and bees hummed, and butterflies 
flitted, and lizards rustled, and birds sang and flew. Mid- 
way in the distance were patches of brown earth, newly 
ploughed, and delicate green trees just leafing out, and 
old gray houses alone in the fields; and against the blue 
Alban Mount, the old Roman wall and the old cypresses 
of the Villa Ludovisi, made a picturesque effect. Were 
it not that the Italians warn us against exposure to a 
March sun, and against the shade of the moist ground, 
one might be tempted to lie and dream hours in this 
lonely old place. 



126 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

One night there was a glorious Moccoletti on the day 
of the receipt of the news of the Viennese Revolution. 
In the morning the bells rang and cannon and musketry 
were fired for several hours. The whole city was like a 
carnival for joy. The Corso was crowded, everybody 
wearing tri-colored cockades, feathers and badges and 
sprigs of box. They collected in large numbers about 
the grim old Venetian Palace, the residence of the Aus- 
trian Ambassador — and ascending the walls with a 
ladder, tore down the Austrian arms with triumphant 
shouts, threw the escutcheon into the street and danced 
upon it. After which it was dragged (by a donkey, I was 
told) all the way to the Piazza del Popolo, and publicly 
burned. People went about with pieces of the wood 
stuck in their hat-bands. In the evening I thought I 
would walk into the Corso to see what was going on — 
when the whole blaze of the Moccoletti burst at once 
upon me. This regular finale of the carnival festivities 
had been omitted at the regular time, in consequence of 
the sympathy of the Romans with the future of the Lom- 
bards, and now it blazed out to celebrate the prospect 
of their success. I never saw such jubilant joy and en- 
thusiasm; crowds upon crowds singing national hymns, 
and shouting, and all holding up their lights — others 
stemming the tide in carriages, and all keeping their 
lights unquenched — none offering to put out his neigh- 
bor's, after the usual custom. 

I got into Perkins's carriage, and after looking at the 
scene as long as we chose, with our flaming torches in 
our hands we drove home to the Pincio. On the College 
of the Jesuits they wrote Locanda (to let); and were 
hardly restrained from doing violence to the premises. 

Young George William Curtis was in Germany 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 127 

during the autumn and winter, somewhat home- 
sick for Italy, but greatly enjoying German music. 
Space allows us to give but scattered extracts from 
the full and delightful letters he sent to his friends in 
Rome : — 

Vienna, October 26, 1847. 

I am head-full and heart-full of Jenny Lind. It is no 
longer voice and vision in the air, but a star and flower 
in my memory. ... I do not feel that she would be un- 
equal to the grandest parts. She is naturally an artist. 
Her acting is as simple and natural as her singing, and 
that is the most wonderful and easiest I ever thought 
of. Her voice is a pure soprano, but so flexible, so sweet, 
so strong, so keen, it is wrought into such magnificent 
elaborations and effects, it so reels and soars and sways 
and twinkles, so dies into softness, like a star melting 
in darkness, perfect until it is lost, and advances again 
and echoes deepening like a rushing choir of swallows 
trembling audibly in the spring morning, that I thought 
at once how she was something not different in degree 
only, but in kind from any artist and voice I ever 
knew. . . . 

We were in Dresden and the passport was vised for 
Vienna, when we heard by mere chance in a German 
conversation at the table d'h6te that she was in Berlin. 
It needed but an hour to change the vises and to be off 
at daybreak for Berlin, where she was to sing only four 
nights, and had already sung two. We arrived while 
she was singing the third night, but places were not. 
By great exertion and a promise of any price, we obtained 
good places for her last night and a benefit, in the "Son- 
nambula," and the next evening in a concert, which was 
very beautiful, as she sang an air of Mozart's, the finale 



128 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

of Weber's "Euryanthe" with the chorus, and a Swedish 
song, besides several others. . . . 

I have never before seen such entire nobility in the 
address of an artist to an audience. There was not the 
hint or shadow of claptrap, no bravuras or cadenzas, 
but when she did ornament a song it was a richness 
drawn from its own nature, so that it was overflowed 
with itself — it was steeped in beauty as great as its 
melody — not hung upon it, but incorporated with it, 
so that the audience could only murmur like waves re- 
strained by a fairy wand. And when at the close the 
applause rose and roared around her she smiled quietly 
with delight, for why should she not enjoy her exquisite 
power and the delight it conferred? 

" Can such things be, 
And overcome us like a summer cloud, 
Without our special wonder ? " 

For this is one of the overarching joys of life — this is 
that morning sky and Shelley's skylark who sang and 
soared into it. May you one day know what it is, or if 
not, have faith that the same genius which drew us to 
Rome does not fail of another expression in our own 
day. . . . 

Berlin, November 12, 1847. 
. . . You will have heard, perhaps before now, that 
Mendelssohn is dead, — the great balance to the world 
of music. He was in Leipzig taken a little sick and grew 
suddenly worse until he died just a week ago, the very 
day on which he was to have brought out his new ora- 
torio "Elijah" here. It will be brought out in January. 
His body was brought from Leipzig to Berlin by a night 
train. At every station while it passed, solemn hymns, 
chiefly of his own, were sung around the coffin, which 
presently darted off with flaring torches to another be- 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 129 

wailing. The funeral here was at sunrise, but so private 
that I did not know of it. But night before last the or- 
chestra of the Royal Academy gave their second concert 
for the winter, and made it a remembrance and requiem 
for their great lover, leader, and master. The concert 
commenced with the funeral march from Beethoven's 
"Heroic Symphony," and all the rest was made up of 
Mendelssohn's music, — a kyrie eleison, a symphony, 
the overture to the "Midsummer Night's Dream," the 
"Forty-third Psalm," the overture to the "Fingal's 
Cave," and a song. I may call it the most perfect in- 
strumental concert I ever heard. You can have no idea 
of the wonderful unity and delicacy of the performance, 
and for his music which is so like woven gold in threads, 
it was entirely satisfactory. The audience was immense 
and utterly silent. There was no applause, not a single 
clap, and they would not permit the rustling of a dress 
or a bill while the performance was proceeding. The last 
song ended in this way, — you will have remarked the 
exquisite delicacy of the whole thing, and see how this 
seals it, — 

"Nun musst du mich auch recht versteh'n, 
Wenn Menschen auseinander geh'n 
So sagen sie, auf Wiederseh'n, — auf Wiederseh'n." 

Mendelssohn was yet a young man, only thirty-eight 
years old. But like all Germans who are called to do any- 
thing, he did it while it was day. That is one thing I feel 
so strongly this side of the Alps, — the industry and 
accuracy of all work. At cafes and gardens where fine 
music is to be heard the broad-browed fraus sit with 
their knitting and the grave husband sits beside smok- 
ing and reading the paper with the tankards of beer 
decreasing in most conjugal harmony. And how, my 
dear Xtopher, condemned to silence in solemn old Rome, 



130 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

can I convey to you the knowledge of the capital which 
reeks with music? Every week there is a symphony 
concert and constantly a German and Italian opera, and 
every night also quartettes, trios, overtures, — concerts 
in the small way, which undertake great music and do it 
well, so that it seems as if I must be nothing but ear 
and soul this winter. 

Evening. I see to-day that the Trio Company will give 
an extra concert on Monday to which all ticket-holders 
may go, for the purpose of playing trios of Mendels- 
sohn's, and so to show their respect and regard for 
him. Did I say that his body was received in Berlin at 
daybreak by a company who went down to the station, 
singing and carrying palm branches? They preceded it to 
his house and then with great multitudes of people and 
the boys and girls of the school to which he had been 
specially kind, accompanied to the grave, where at sun- 
rise it was met by the same choir whom we heard the 
other evening, and while they sang one of his own hymns, 
it was laid in the grave. To-day too I read in the papers 
that grey-headed leaders of choirs and orchestras came 
down to the various stations upon the road, and weep- 
ing and sobbing, sang dirges in the cold midnight until 
the train disappeared. I remember nothing more beau- 
tiful than the picture of these old servants in the art 
rendering such sympathetic reverence and regard to their 
dead Master, and he so young too. 

Berlin, Dec. 14, 1847. 
My dear Pearse, drain that beaker full of the warm 
South while your lips are at the goblet. If not so sweet 
and wonderful to the taste, be sure that when the wine 
and the cap are laid away in the dim Treasury of Mem- 
ory all that seems now vague and only half delight, will 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 131 

come out into the perfect form of pleasure as clouds at 
sunset, which, as they grow fainter and recede, take all 
wondrous shapes of faerie and fame, until the day goes 
down in a splendid sky-Romance and History. Yet 
Italy adorns Germany as the Summer the Winter. There 
is nothing new or picturesque, and the Germans are so 
graceless and unhandsome every way, that the day 
when I pass a girl whom I wish to see again is a bright 
day in the calendar. While I am housed studying, it is 
well eno', but when I step out, the regular, broad-streeted 
city with no people whom I care to see, and if by chance, 
the want of a good opera or other music desolates the 
evening. These things make me foreign and cold in my 
turn. Germany, in these parts, is a spiritual, not an 
external world. . . . With summer and more acquaintance 
all sorts of new revelations may come. 

Behold me no more plain Signor Giorgio, but The Well- 
Born Philosophical Student Curtis! That is my present 
address upon all shoe and other bills. For I have passed 
the Rubicon of German matriculation and am one of the 
two thousand regular students of the Berlin University, 
and as I am neither in the law nor theological depart- 
ments, I am necessarily philosophical, which is the only 
other. But have no fancies, of him who whilom basked 
in Capri's sun, now grappling in midnight struggles 
with Kant or Fichte or Hegel. I lead my flocks of phil- 
osophical research by the still waters of Professor Rit- 
ter's lectures upon Universal Geography and those of 
Professor Gelzer upon German literature. These at 
present, while I do not so well understand, — others by 
and by. Ritter I can follow entirely, and really get 
much news from what he says. His theme is the His- 
tory of the Knowledge of the Earth from the first beams 
of breaking light upon that subject. This leads him into 



132 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

all the Oriental ideas of the earth — by illustration — 
to the expedition of the Argonauts and such things — to 
Strabo and Ptolemaus, to all the Grecian theories, and 
so we march majestically forward from darkness to 
light. But it is a most picturesque and attractive dark- 
ness. The complete theory of the Indians that the lotus 
flower was the symbol of the earth, the vague fancies 
of the Greeks, the eminence of poor, old, dear Egypt, 
seem to have a deeper interest because they are spoken 
of in a language from which I can just extricate them. 
I am pleased with my progress. 

Berlin, February 6, 1848. 

. . . Since Christmas there has been most solemn calm 
in Berlin. Have I mentioned what a quiet, provincial 
town it is, laid out in broad, regular streets, as unhand- 
some and graceless as the dear, clumsy, semi-disgusting 
and semi-sublime Germans. No balconies and roofs 
and doorways, no meaningless beams and juts, which 
make up the picturesqueness of the stillest Italian town; 
and although a metropolis, no air of any sort, no fine 
equipages, no fine stores, no fine houses, nothing which 
becomes a great city except a magnificent group of build- 
ings at the end of one spacious, tree-planted street, and 
except the unequalled music and the University. It lies 
on a great plain, a vast city of more than 400,000 peo- 
ple, but far less beautiful and busy and gay than Naples 
or Milan or Vienna, or even Munich. 

But this is only Berlin, and not Germany. Sometimes 
I have a vague fear that our Germany, that which we 
have known and loved in books, is nowhere to be found. 
. . . Now and then a face, a little talk, a scene in a pub- 
lic garden recalls some strain of the German song, but 
the great universal life does not yet do it. 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 133 

Last night we went to a beautiful performance of 
SehlegePs translation of the "Midsummer Night's 
Dream," with Mendelssohn's exquisite, shall I dare to 
say, equal music, and the Puck was most delicately 
done by a girl who resembled the water nymphs, who 
in Kaulbach's illustration of Goethe's Fisher, push 
aside the river rushes and look out from under their 
heavy, weird brows in glances full of elfish and wonder- 
ful beauty. In the same place we have seen Goethe's 
"Iphigenie" and Sophocles' "Antigone" played before 
the King and court with all the music of Mendelssohn 
again, and arranged in the pure Grecian style, the cur- 
tain going down instead of up and the chorus ascending 
in front of the stage, and there surrounding the altar. 
... I have heard Garcia a great deal. She is a pleas- 
ing, but by no means a great singer. Her talent is very 
versatile. I have heard her in "Norma" and "Rosina" 
and the "Iphigenie" of Gluck and Bellini's "Mon- 
tecchi and Capuletti," — in which she was Romeo — 
and "Don Juan," and Halvy's "Jewels." She is very 
good in all, a perfect mistress of the stage with a voice 
that is not very powerful nor very sweet, but elaborately 
cultivated, and in gay Spanish songs very fascinating. 
She is exceedingly homely. 

Gluck's "Iphigenie" was a new thing, though one of 
the oldest of operas. It is an imposing, majestic work. 
The music flows on in a steady, solemn stream like lyrical 
church music, rarely breaking into tunes, but never 
falling into dry recitative. An elderly gentleman sat 
by me entranced. During the acts he said, "I suppose 
you have never heard this." I replied no, and expressed 
my pleasure, and his eyes fairly glistened as he smiled 
and said, "Ach, Gott, mein Herr, wenn man diese Musik 
liebt so hat man einen wahr geschmach in Musik." Then 



134 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

he fell to telling me stories of Gluck, — what a religious 
man he was in music, how I might in this opera have 
some idea of a style of religious music now quite unknown. 
Indeed, there was a strong feeling of the Germany which 
we anticipate, in the genial, gentle conversation of the 
old gentleman. 

Berlin, March 5, 1848. 
I sent you a letter telling of our revolution, and could 
I have detained it an hour, it should have told you also 
of the end; for as I returned from mailing it, I passed 
the palace at which the arming of the citizens was al- 
ready taking place. Three nights in the three capitals 
of Europe have sufficed to establish in form the govern- 
ment of popular intelligence, as it already existed in fact; 
or a night apiece to France, Prussia, and Austria could 
not have done the business [better]. We have been 
through all the stages — the solemn burial of the dead, 
which were here numbered by hundreds; the illumina- 
tions; the appearance of the King with the tricolor, the 
gold, red, and black of Germany which floated over the 
barricades during that tremendous night. The libera- 
tion of the Polish prisoners, and the hurrahs, the dis- 
turbance; and, unlike Paris, the immediate return to the 
old appearance of things, except the enormous numbers 
of soldiers. They are all gone — even the gens d 9 armes 
and the Berlin lieutenants have left none but melan- 
choly traces. In the midst of the mangled and horrible 
corpses, which were exposed last Sunday, lay one young 
man, an officer, clad in his handsome military suit, his 
hands folded upon his breast, his light, curling hair wav- 
ing in the wind, with no gash or scar, and a calm smile 
upon his marble face. These are the things that make 
one willing to die; and try if elsewhere the order of life 



SECOND ROMAN WINTER 135 

is not more delicate. This Prussian military monarchy 
fell in a night, and will have few relics. I know many 
young officers who have now nothing to do. The Burgher 
guard alone hold the arms and the city. The King wished 
to abdicate, but they will retain him chained to his 
throne. "Leave to the royal race the golden throne," 
says the most revolutionary song I have seen. Every 
one wears a national, German, not Prussian, cockade, 
and the same tricolored flag hangs upon every house. 

The press, suddenly perfectly free, leaps and rejoices 
in its power. Nothing proves to me so strongly the in- 
telligent, popular feeling in Europe as the ease with 
which such entire political earthquakes are endured. 

A war with Russia is now the only fear. But it will be 
a war waged by Russia, not against Prussia and Austria 
alone, but against all Europe. For the events of the 
months have shown Europeans that they are really 
friends and brothers. In the midst of such events I have 
the keenest interest, but it is not weighty enough to en- 
croach farther here. . . . 



CHAPTER VIII 

NAPLES — SORRENTO 

From Mr. Cranch's Journal: — 

On April 12, 1848, we set out on our journey, travel- 
ling by vettura, . . . and on the morning of the fourth day 
we arrived in Naples. We took rooms at 28 Santa Lucia, 
overlooking the sea. The whole Bay and Vesuvius hung 
like a great picture, always before us. The mountain 
was as quiet as a sleeping child; a light, slow-moving 
wreath of white smoke hardly distinguishable from a 
cloud, issued from the cone and crawled along the top 
of the mountain. In the evening I looked for some fiery 
light about the top, but there was only one dull red spot, 
probably from the lava, like the red half-opened eye of 
a lion in the dark. Nothing could exceed the beauty, for 
form and color, of the whole mountain coast; and the 
Island of Capri in the south, bathed in the rosiest sun- 
set light; the shores on the coast all studded with white 
towns and scattered houses. 

April 18. Last night I ascended Vesuvius with two 
or three companions. We started between ten and 
eleven in a comfortable carriage with three horses, which 
took us through Portici and Resina up as far as the 
Hermitage. It was a glorious, cloudless, full moonlight. 
At the Hermitage we had a fire made; for we were chilled 
through. And with bread, cheese, salame and cigars, 
and above all some bottles of white Lagrima Cristi, we all 
grew very merry and sang "Suona la tromba" and the 
"Marseillaise" with great effect. 

As soon as it was daylight we commenced the ascent, 



NAPLES 137 

all the way on foot from the Hermitage. We were helped 
up the toilsome ascent of the cone by the guides. I was 
up before any of the others, and in full time to see the 
reddening of the east and the sunrise. What a wild, bleak 
mountain solitude was spread around us! In the dis- 
tance the eye took in the great panorama of hills and 
valleys and sea coast and sea, and fruitful plains and 
smiling villages, dotting with white the vast green ex- 
panse around, over which the thinnest white veil of 
morning mist was lingering, making it seem like a vast 
ethereal lake. 

But it was the scene immediately beneath and around 
us, that attracted and absorbed us most. 

Here we were walking over the hot heaps of broken 
scoria and lava, occasionally crossing crevices and great 
gaping seams where the red fire skulked, and into which 
we poked our sticks and drew them out blazing. Frag- 
ments of the volcanic deposit of all colors, sulphur, cop- 
per, iron and what not, lay all around. Sometimes we 
would step on a bed of lava, quite hard, but which seemed 
to have suddenly congealed in its quiet motion, before 
it had time to wrinkle into the fantastic forms which 
distinguish such large quantities of the lava. Mr. D. 
and I ascended, unhelped of guides, the upper cone, — 
and leaned over the very brink, where the mephitic 
smoke and exhalations steamed up in our faces, almost 
taking away our breath. It was unusually quiet. But 
there came one gush of smoke which warned us to back 
out and descend from this foul mouth of the Inferno. 

It was comfortable to warm ourselves, chilled by the 
cold mountain wind, in this black old sulphur-kitchen 
of Satan. I felt corporeally as a sinner might be expected 
to feel spiritually, attracted and made easy within, as 
I lingered in the precincts of this Hell. 



138 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Sudden and swift was our descent, with gravel and 
stones rolling down with us and filling our shoes, — swift 
as our ascent was painful and slow. From the valley at 
the bottom of the great cone, how desolate and grand 
towered up the bare cliffs on the right! It was like the 
Valley of Diamonds in Sindbad the Sailor. 

April 21. Surely it is some visionary realm that 
stretches off yonder over the sea! A long dark cloud 
hangs over Vesuvius and reaches to the mountains of the 
coast. But the moon has struggled through, rising and 
treading down the black bars of her cloud-prison, and 
flinging wide open her dungeon doors, floods the sky 
with soft dreamy light, and paves a long pathway on 
the waves. A single fisher's boat, lit by red torchlight, 
dances across the bright spangles of the water. Nothing 
is heard of all the noises, that in the bright day come up 
from the Chiaja, — only the dash of the waves rejoic- 
ing in the moonbeams. 

. . . An American frigate, the United States, has been 
lying for some time at anchor in the bay. Yesterday she 
sailed for Messina. 

I went aboard of her, and was struck with the fault- 
less finish and completeness of all her parts. . . . The 
officers were very gentlemanly and obliging. We sat 
and took wine and talked politics with them. After 
which we sat some time in the old Commodore's room. 
He is a true type of an American commander. Speaking 
of the state of Europe, this hard, practical, shrewd old 
gentleman said, that no one would ever have predicted 
the Viennese Revolution: that the heart of Austria was 
the very last place to look for such an event. I thought 
how Emerson would have seized upon this expression of 
opinion from such a man. For what things can we put 
faith in when the belief of such a shrewd and old-fash- 



NAPLES 139 

ioned practitioner is swept away by such an event? The 
subtle, undermining spirit is never extinct; and let no 
man think the wit of the universe can be stifled, any 
more than the fire of a volcano. We all live on a centre 
crust of the world. Within, underneath our feet lies 
the limitless realm of the, as yet, impossible beliefs and 
facts. . . . 

Along the Riviera di Chiaja, a beautiful broad, clean 
street lying on the bay, are some of the finest houses! 
Passing these you come to the Villa Reale, a pleasant 
green promenade decorated with some good statues, 
copies in marble from the antique. Outside the left- 
hand wall of the garden lies the beach, with picturesque 
fishermen in their boats, and the waves breaking upon 
the sand. And over the sea you look off to Capri, re- 
markable for the beauty of its outlines, and at sunset 
its magic colors. In the distance the prettiest sails are 
skimming always over the waters. Nothing can exceed 
the beauty of the color on the sea, the most delicate 
emerald green alternating with purple, the latter being 
caused by the shadows of the silver clouds. In America 
they would say if these colors were painted, — "It is 
not natural/' as Europeans would say of our autumnal 
tints. 

April 29. To-day we have seen Pompeii; and it has 
fully equalled if not surpassed, my anticipations. Dickens 
speaks of this "city disinterred" as solemn and gloomy. 
To me it seemed cheerful and bright. It was the love- 
liest of spring days. And all through the deserted streets 
and ruined houses and temples breathed the sweet 
breath of spring flowers, and all around in the distance 
slept the dreamy mountains. Then all was so secluded 
and still; no fashionable loungers, no curious tourists, 
no squalid beggars to mar the wholeness of the impres- 



140 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

sion. It is a place for a poet to dream in days and days. 
The houses, though all open to the day, seemed sacred 
and inviolate. The graceful paintings on the walls of 
the chambers, the beautiful mosaic floors and fountains, 
the statues and bas-reliefs seemed so fresh and unhack- 
neyed, as if waiting for us alone to see them. 

How beautiful and unbroken and unscathed by the 
fiery cinders which once overwhelmed them and hid 
them for centuries, stood these fresh tiles and shining 
marbles and warm frescoes! Here are the dreams of 
the architect, the poet, the painter, the sculptor, vivid, 
as of old. ... As we passed along the narrow streets, 
marked with the ancient ruts of their chariot-wheels, 
and peeped among the ruined walls, I could almost fancy 
that some classically draped figure would steal by; some 
garlanded priest with hoary beard, some centurion with 
shining armor and crisp black locks underneath his 
proud helmet; some Grecian-looking maiden, bearing 
an antique water-vase on her head. It was hardly con- 
ceivable that all was so old. We seemed to be trans- 
ported far back into those antique times. And who could 
look up to that mountain now so quiet and grave, with 
its smoke scarcely perceptible floating up in that bluest 
and serenest sky, and around on the smiling gardens 
and vineyards at its feet, and realize that there was 
the unquenchable fountain of fire and desolation which 
deluged all this vast space ! And this was Pompeii ! And 
yet we see one quarter of the buried city. Underneath 
these hills and vineyards sleep, and for so many centu- 
ries have slept, more beauty and splendor, more rare and 
curious works of art, than have yet been excavated. 
Lovely yet fearful site for a city, — girt by the moun- 
tains and the sea; but brooding and gloating over it the 
fiery eyes of Vesuvius. On one side smiled on by volup- 



NAPLES 141 

tuous love, and on the other scowled on by the deadly 
frowns of rage and treacherous hate. Singular has been 
the fascination and terrible the destiny of these cities 
and villages which have flocked around the fires of the 
destroying mountain: like moths around a lamp they 
have come and been consumed, one after another. And 
still they sit there under the spell of the evil genius, dar- 
ing the fate of their sisters of old. 

One of the most remarkable things about Pompeii 
is the perfect freshness and stainlessness of everything 
excavated. The whole city seems to have been embalmed, 
as if the flowers and shrubs which grow in and over the 
walls had done their part in preserving it sweet and clean. 
There is nothing of the damp and mouldy smell which 
lurks about the ruins of Rome. The lava and ashes and 
scoria of the mountain have kept all dry and uncor- 
rupted. This seems to take away half the sense of desola- 
tion, since we are assured that still underneath this 
light soil all the rest of the unsunned treasures lie so well 
preserved. 

Naples did not impress me as a moral city. Nor was 
there any reason why it should. From the King down 
to the lazzaroni it seemed to be all the same. I never 
could go into a crowd without losing a pocket handker- 
chief. The only time I ever saw "Bomba," the unpopu- 
lar Bourbon King, was one day as I was passing the 
royal palace. A curious but unapplauding crowd was 
gathered around the gates; and a stout gentleman puff- 
ing at a cigar came out, unattended, and got into a gig 
to take a drive. "Who is it"? I asked a bystander. It 
was curious to see his look and the shrug of his shoulders, 
as he answered, "II Re"! 



142 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Margaret Fuller to Mrs. Cranck 

Rome, 14th May, 1848. 

I received your note some three weeks since, and was 
rejoiced to find all had gone so well with you. But for- 
tune favors the brave. I had half thought to salute you 
this week in person, being extremely tempted to accom- 
pany the Storys, but on the whole could not make the 
expedition fit all inward and outward demands of the 
present hour. . . . 

You know, I suppose, that we have had great trouble 
at Rome, and how Pio has disappointed the enthusiasm 
he roused. It is a sad affair. Italy was so happy in lov- 
ing him, and the world in seeing one man high placed, 
who became his place and seemed called to it by God. 
But it is all over. He is the modern Lot's wife, and now 
no more a living soul, but cold pillar of the past. . . . 

From Mr. Cranch's Autobiography: — 

Sorrento. . . . We left Naples May 4, in the boat of 
old Rafaello the Mariner, and with a fair wind scudded 
across the bay to Sorrento. We have taken the second 
story of a little place on the Piano di Sorrento, called 
the Villa di Angelis, in one of the most lovely and roman- 
tic spots that could be found. We enter a gate and pass 
into an orange orchard, where the thick green branches 
darken the sky overhead, and bend down to the rich 
earth, laden with their golden fruit. Beautiful white 
orange-blossoms everywhere are interspersed with these 
and load the air with rich perfume. Indeed, the whole 
of Sorrento seems like one immense plantation of orange 
and lemon trees, shut in by high walls. Within the orange 
grove where we are, is a garden of roses and geraniums, 
and a few olive-trees and oaks. And here stands the 
Casino — the little villa which is our summer home. 



SORRENTO 143 

And all this hangs right over the sea, a hundred feet be- 
low. From a dear little terrace, on a level with our rooms, 
we look down over roses and elder blooms and vines to 
the smoothest beach ever washed by the salt waves, 
hemmed in and guarded by high precipitous tufa rocks. 

The whole Bay of Naples lies stretched before us. To 
the right, Vesuvius towers up shrouded in mystery and 
beauty. Opposite, the gleaming city, and the heights 
of Camaldoli. Farther along, in the distance, the prom- 
ontory of Misene, Nisida, Baia, and the blue isles of 
Procida and Ischia; all between, the beautiful wide 
Mediterranean rolling towards us, till it dashes in surf 
below. 

It is a lovely spot. The house too is so tidy and clean 
and commodious. What a contrast to the noise and glare 
of Naples! 

The people of Sorrento also seem more gentle, well- 
behaved, and handsome than in any other place of Italy 
we have been in. On the beach below, picturesque Nea- 
politan fishermen draw in their nets, and bring us fresh 
fish almost every morning. We have large delicious 
bunches of grapes brought to us, now and then. And 
our oranges, said to be the best in Sorrento, are an un- 
failing feast. 

One day I made an excursion with some friends to the 
Island of Capri. But we only had time to visit the Blue 
Grotto. Nothing could be more weird and elfin than 
this singular cavern of the sea. Through an opening 
just wide enough to admit a very small boat, with two 
persons and the oarsman, and so low that you are 
obliged to lie down in the boat, you are suddenly borne 
by a wave into the cavern, whose interior is of a pallid 
blue. The water also is blue, but exquisite and clear as 
crystal, so that you see the fishes at a great depth all 



144 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

tinged with the azure. The water is said to be sixty fathom 
deep. It seemed like the dwelling of some Sea-King or 
Siren. We all looked like ghosts crossing the Styx. We 
sang and shouted and made the arches and dim, dark 
recesses of the sea-cave answer us in echoes. 

May 18. Naples has been torn and convulsed by a day 
of sanguinary civil war. They have had hard and des- 
perate fighting between the Royal troops on one side, 
and on the other, the Civic Guard, assisted by about 
three hundred Calabrians, who, it is said, fought with 
the desperation of tigers. The King having refused the 
people's demand for the abolition of the Chamber of 
Peers, the Civic Guard immediately erected barricades 
in the streets and put themselves in a defensive attitude. 
This was Sunday night, May 13. At eleven next morning 
the attack was commenced. The first firing was from 
the Guard upon the Swiss who attempted to take their 
barricades. The battle then went on. The Swiss Guard 
from the Castel Nuovo shot down every one who ap- 
peared in the streets. Shots were fired constantly be- 
tween the windows of houses and the streets. The shops 
and houses were all closed. The lazzaroni went about 
in large herds plundering and shouting for the strongest 
party. The battle did not cease till two in the morning. 
This was the substance of what Mr. Rogers brought 
from the city. Two or three palaces are said to have 
been burned, and a large number of soldiers killed. Of 
the Civic Guard, many were made prisoners. 

Of all this fiery and bloody work, we, in this peaceful 
retreat, knew nothing. It was a warm, quiet day, and 
from our little home, embowered in roses and orange 
trees, and looking down on the beach, where the waves 
crept in so sleepily, and then off to the opposite shore, 
where the great city and all the neighboring towns slept, 



SORRENTO 145 

white and dim in the distance, — all seemed tranquil 
as a dream. No one could have imagined that war and 
bloodshed were going on there. And though all day 
we heard the booming of cannon, I thought it only the 
manifestation of some popular festive rejoicing. From 
the seclusion of our little villa, we seemed to look out 
upon the agitations of the city, as from the shores of an- 
other world. 

June h. Sunday evening our daughter Leonora 1 was 
born. The event was celebrated by the greatest giran- 
dola which Vesuvius has got up since 1838. On that 
evening the eruption was at its culmination, — the 
streaming of the lava down the sides of the cone was 
particularly beautiful. 

July 5. At Amalfi G. F. Cropsey and I established 
ourselves at the "Luna," immediately on the beach. 
Here we had a fine chance to study boats and groups 
of fishermen, — boys and girls half naked browning 
themselves in the sun [or splashing like frogs in the 
water, — friars, beggars, etc. Above the town tower up 
enormous mountains. . . . Here we found a succession of 
pictures waiting to be painted. But our limited time, 
though we made the best use of it, obliged us to select a 
very few scenes. As you approach the upper part of the 
glen, the mountains are wonderfully grand and solemn: 
steep, splintered, precipitous, many of them, and loom- 
ing up in a hazy mysterious shadow as the sun declines 
behind them, and rising to an immense height. 

1 Indeed no name [referring to Leonora d' Este, the princess to 
whom was dedicated Tasso's verse, Sorrento being his birthplace] 
could be beautiful enough to match the beauty of this place. The 
spirits of the sea, the most transparent of all seas, laving the purple 
bases of the tall rocks, of the blue island and mountains, of the 
green, orange and olive grove, and the roses and the grape vines 
that embower it around, should breathe their subtlest beauties into 
her name. 



146 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

But sad and disheartening is the contrast between na- 
ture and humanity here. The town is a sink of filth and 
squalor and wretchedness -— more abounding in dark 
narrow dirty lanes leading up steep stairs and under 
pitch-dark arches and caves, and the Lord knows what 
miserable holes, too vile for the very swine (which by the 
way fare much better, being washed|by the sweet sea- 
water and walking about in the free air) and in every 
token of degradation worse than any Italian town I have 
seen. One marked instance of the degradation of the 
people is their converting women into beasts of burden — 
carrying on their heads and shoulders enormous loads, 
half -bent to the earth, barelegged, and supporting them- 
selves with long staves. Those women, however, who 
bring snow from the mountains seem much stronger and 
healthier. They also are bare-legged, very picturesque, 
and famous walkers. Of course half the people here beg; 
and the children are very impudent and without any 
sort of manners towards the forestieri, who are a special 
godsend to them in the way of sport and amusement. 
One stranger from beyond Italy will set a whole street 
agape from one end to the other, and the dirty little imps 
tag after him as if he were a dancing bear, or the man 
from the moon. . . . 

July 18. Trip to Capri. At this beautiful island, Story, 
Cropsey, and I put up at Pagani's, the artist's albergo, 
where we found several Americans and Englishmen, who 
had most of them come there to frolic and dissipate. 

We visited the chief beauties of the island (according 
to the guides), i. e., the Ponte Naturale, a grand and won- 
derful arch of gray rock on a high cliff near the sea — the 
Grotto Matrimonia, the Piccola Marina, the Blue Grotto 
again, and Anacapri, to which we ascend by five hundred 
and thirty-six difficult steps. Above Anacapri, at a 



SORRENTO 147 

height of over one thousand feet, we visited the Castle of 
Barbarossa. We made a good many sketches in pencil; 
bathed several times in the sea, which is deliciously clear. 
At night we sang, with a guitar, which we found in the 
hotel. 

In August I made a second trip to Amalfi with Story 
and Cropsey. From there to Salerno, by boat; and thence 
by carriage to Psestum. Our visit to these famous old 
ruins was on a lovely, breezy day. As we approached 
them we could none of us resist the most enthusiastic 
exclamations of delight. Never had I seen anything more 
perfect, such exquisite proportions, such warm, rich 
coloring, such picturesquely broken columns; flowers and 
briers growing in and around, and sometimes over fallen 
capitals. Right through between the columns gleamed 
the sea, and beyond, the blue, misty mountains. And 
over all brooded such a silence and solitude. Nothing 
stood between us and the Past, to mar the impression. 
Mysterious, beautiful temples ! Far in the desert, by the 
sea-sands, in a country cursed by malaria, the only un- 
blighted and perfect things, — standing there for over 
two thousand years. It was almost like going to Greece. 

We took our repast in the great temple of Neptune; 
then betook ourselves resolutely to sketching. . . . These 
are said to be the oldest temples existing in Europe, — so 
that even the Emperor Augustus visited them as ruins. 
Of the rest of the city nothing else remains, that we could 
discover from a rapid survey, but a part of the walls and 
a gate. They told us it was unsafe to remain here after 
three o'clock on account of the malaria. Our stay was too 
brief, but the sun began to descend, and we hurried away, 
and almost before we could make this vision of loveliness 
real and tangible, we were out of sight of it forever. 

The rocks and mountains in the gulf of Salerno are very 



148 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

rugged, wild and fantastic in their forms. We amused 
ourselves tracing out amongst them the shapes of tem- 
ples, towers, and huge castles, more or less distinctively 
suggested by their singular formations. Sometimes the 
resemblance to architecture of the most gigantic and wild 
proportions, is very striking; Moorish towers with arches 
and doorways, pyramids, bridges, huge gates, and often 
the resemblance of the strata to the masonry of walls, 
amounts to deception. 

One morning Cropsey and I walked six miles from 
Amalfi, along the shore to sketch a fine old ruined castle 
beside the sea called Bazia. Near it is a famous cavern 
called the Grotto of San Francisco, in which are the ruins 
of an old church, the mortar of whose walls is preserved 
as white and unmarred (owing to the sea-air) as if built 
yesterday. At the back of it is a deep chasm with water 
at the bottom, down which the guides throw stones, that 
you may hear the reverberation. They told us that a 
man once found his way through this chasm underground 
to Castellamare. If he did, it was a miracle equal to any 
of the saint, whose presence presided over the Cave. 

We were between four and five months at Sorrento. 
Nothing could have been lovelier than the place we were 
in. On our little vine-shaded terrace we sat, and took our 
tea, while enjoying the extensive view over the Bay. We 
could bathe at any time on the beach below, to which we 
descended by path and stairway, cut through the cavern- 
ous tufa rock. 

One morning as I sat sketching on the shore, a hand- 
some, picturesque fisherman suddenly appeared, with his 
boat. We were at once on the friendliest terms. He had 
the natural good manners of a gentleman. I got him to 
pose just there, and made a rough sketch of him and his 
boat. 






SORRENTO 149 

We paid a very moderate price for our rooms, and for 
our domestic service the cost was absurdly low. Our cook 
was old Luigia, one of the De Angelis family — a higher 
class of peasants, who owned the place, and whose cot- 
tage was within the same enclosure with us. This family 
took care of the grounds, and the women raised silk- 
worms. Luigia had an original recipe for cooking eggs. 
She knew just how long they should be boiled by the 
number of Aves she said over them! . . . 



CHAPTER IX 

FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 

From the Autobiography: — 

We left Naples for Florence on September 24. We had 
intended returning to Rome, but affairs were getting too 
disturbed in that region, and we were advised not to go 
there. We left in a little steamer, stopping at Civita 
Vecchia and Leghorn; we had bad weather and a rather 
miserable time on the way, and were dreadfully imposed 
upon by the boatmen and porters, and bothered by the 
custom-house officers. 

As soon as possible George and I sallied out with a 
loquacious, stupid old valet de place who pretended he 
could speak English, — and made what use of our time 
and eyes we could. Called on Powers, found him in his 
workshop in working dress. He received us very cordially 
and seemed just as he did nine years ago when I knew him 
in Washington. We saw the model of his Eve, a bust of 
Proserpine, a bust of the Grand Duchess, his boy holding 
the shell to his ear, a duplicate of his Greek Slave not 
quite finished, and the rough model in clay of a statue of 
J. C. Calhoun for Charleston. His Greek Slave seems to 
me as near perfection as can be. I cannot imagine any- 
thing more exquisitely beautiful. . . . 

Near sunset we went into the Duomo — the Church of 
Santa Maria del Fiore. It was beautiful and holy at this 
hour, the sun illuminating all the rich old stained glass 
windows, and shooting down level bars of light from the 
dome, — the lamps on the altar and the chanting and 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 151 

responses of the kneeling groups scattered about over 
the wide floor. . . . 

One evening at twilight we all went into the San 
Frediano at vespers. The chanting of the boys behind 
the altar, answered by the voluntaries of the organ, whose 
softer stops were peculiarly rich, was very impressive. 
The kneeling crowd seemed really devotional beneath 
these glorious arches, this fine music and the gathering 
shades of evening. . . . There was one prayer, one tran- 
quil aspiration from the hearts of all. There is something 
exceedingly impressive in seeing the old, the poor and 
infirm, come up and kneel without distinction of place, 
beside the rich and the beautiful. Here is one place, — 
and that the holiest, the most beautiful, the most fitted 
to awaken and keep alive devotional feeling, — where 
all can meet as on common ground. 

We have excellent lodgings — in a central part of the 
city, near the Palazzo Vecchio and the Loggia dei Lanzi. 
From our windows looking up the street we see Michael 
Angelo's "David." 1 Within a minute's walk is this and 
a number of other celebrated statues. 

Looking over my journal, I find that we enjoyed 
Florence much. We went to the opera, heard "Saffo" by 
Pacini and "Don Procopio" by Fiorovanti, which we 
liked, but were much disgusted with the Italian fashion 
of introducing the ballet between the acts. I remember 
that sometimes we went with our friends Frank Boott 
and the Storys, and would go away when the ballet came 
to Boott's house where we had supper, and returned to 
finish the opera. The ballet is intolerable enough in itself, 
but when it interrupts and breaks the flow of a good 

1 This statue used to stand in front of the old royal palace. It was 
removed to the Accademia dei Belle Arte to preserve it from the 
elements. 



152 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

opera, it becomes past all endurance. So that it requires 
the extremest stretch of patience to sit it through, in or- 
der to hear the last act of the opera. And yet the corrupt 
taste of the Italians is carried so far that they will fall 
into the noisiest displays of enthusiasm at the dancers, 
surpassing all their bravos excited by the music and 
singing. It suffices that they are amused; that is enough 
for an Italian. The cause is of little consequence. 

I went one day to the studio of Bartolini, a sculptor of 
some reputation at that time. There was the same repe- 
tition of the antique that marks all the work of the Ital- 
ians. An Eve, with the Serpent, reclining dejected after 
her fall, was quite good. A bust of Lord Byron interested 
me as expressing that curious combination of qualities in 
his character. There were his fine sensitiveness, his pride, 
his discontent, his sensuousness, his ideality, and his 
hard, practical worldliness, all mingled in the face. I 
don't know how it ranks with Thorwaldsen's, which I 
have never seen. I remember that Byron somewhere in 
one of his letters speaks of this bust as making him look 
like "a superannuated Jesuit." 

I find that I was much impressed by the busts of our 
countryman, Hiram Powers. I thought I had seen 
nothing to compare with them for truth and expression. 
With Powers himself as a bright, genial, friendly man, I 
was much taken. He was full of pleasant anecdote and 
fun. His wife too, we found very agreeable. We saw a 
good deal also of Horatio Greenough, who stood high as 
a sculptor, and enjoyed much his society and that of his 
wife. With the Storys we were intimate. 

It is needless to say how we enjoyed the fine galleries, 
the Pitti, and the Uffizzi. We were much impressed with 
the grand statues of Michael Angelo at the Chapel of the 
Medici family in the Church of San Lorenzo; and with 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 153 

the frescoes of Masaccio in the Carmelite Chapel or 
Church of the Brancacci. They are truly wonderful. For 
simplicity and truth to nature I have seen nothing of 
Raphael which surpasses the marked individuality and 
character of these figures and faces. Every head seemed a 
portrait, and no single figure or face but tells part of the 
story. And yet these were painted before the time of 
Leonardo da Vinci and almost a century before Raphael. 
They furnished studies and subjects for all the best mas- 
ters who succeeded Masaccio; and showed a tremendous 
stride in advance of the dry, stiff compositions of his 
predecessors in art. Yet they were painted by a young 
man who died at the age of twenty-seven. 

January 13, 1849. 1 They call this the season of the 
Carnival in Florence. It extends, I believe, from Christ- 
mas to Lent. But I see nothing that seems like that sea- 
son to me, but the opening of the theatres. Everything 
goes on just as usual. How different such a diluted and 
watery Carnival from the almost too spicy and condensed 
festival of Rome, where all is crowded into nine days of 
entire abandonment to the spirit of frolic and gay mas- 
querade. Here is no masking, here no gaily decked bal- 
conies and crowded windows looking down on the great 
thronging multitude, emancipated from form and exult- 
ing in the liberty of children; no lines of men and women 
in carriages, and dense masses of foot-passengers; no 
whirl of revelry; no blight of flowers and raining of con- 
fetti, no race of riderless horses at sunset; no glorious 
moccoletti suggestive of Oriental feasts! Rome alone for 
all this! Ah, what can ever imitate it? A few old tar- 
nished masquerade dresses hang here and there in some 
poor Jew-pedlar's stall — like soiled and trampled rose- 
leaves, that have seen their night of ballroom splendor, 
1 From the Journal. 



154 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

\ 

and are thrown into the muddy street. That short-lived 
and splendid flower, the Roman Carnival, which waits 
the whole year for its blooming, and in nine days shrivels 
up and falls, leaving nothing but the dry old stalk which 
held it, cannot bloom anywhere but in its native soil. 
Transplant it, and it becomes a common flower. 

January lJj,. What queer things are constantly passing 
here in Italy in the streets, which go unnoticed because 
so common! How odd they would be in America! Just 
now I passed a man (Sunday morning) with a large hen 
in one hand, hanging by the legs. In the other was a 
paper containing I suppose numbers for chances for a 
raffle of the said hen, — while he cried "Signori! ecc* 
una bella femina! bella, bella! " I have seen them driving 
along a solitary turkey in the same way. 

The common street-cries are sometimes alarming at 
first to a stranger. You are sitting quietly in your room, 
when you are roused by what seems a violent altercation 
in the street. Two or three persons are vociferating at the 
top of their lungs, and apparently in such a state of ex- 
citement that you expect something dreadful. Perhaps 
the Grand Duke has ordered out his soldiers to clear the 
streets; or a policeman is apprehending a thief; or there is 
a street-fight which hundreds are rushing to see; what can 
it be! The streets are nearly empty, and all this holla- 
balloo comes from two or three pedlars who are anxious 
to dispose of their commodities. But no one seems to 
regard them or wonder at their vociferation. You see 
men every day selling buttons, tape and handkerchiefs, 
standing at a corner of a street, exclaiming, "Un pauolo, 
un pauolo!" in a tone as if they were screaming, "Fire, 
fire!" or, "Stand out of the way! the house is tumbling 
down!" 

One day I met an old man rolling along a sort of hand- 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 155 

cart in which he had, I believe, shoe-blacking for sale. 
Suddenly he stopped short, and with the utmost rage 
depicted on his countenance, seemed abusing somebody a 
good way ahead of him, for he looked steadily down the 
street, and seemed to be expending his wrath on some 
invisible object in that quarter. I looked that way and 
could see no one. I thought some one might have robbed 
him, or perhaps some small boy in his service had run 
away, and he was ordering him back. No such thing! He 
was only extolling the excellence of his superior blacking. 
The constant effort of bawling as loud as possible must 
have communicated to his features that excessively iras- 
cible look, till it had become the habitual cast of his face. 

From the Autobiography: — 

I shall never forget the gesticulations of the common 
class of Romans and Neapolitans. The Roman, especially 
when excited by wine, when conversing with animation, 
will raise not only his shoulders but both arms, and with 
all the fingers of both hands spread, make them quiver 
like heat-lightning over his head. The Neapolitan is still 
more extreme and various in his natural language. 1 The 
mariners when excited in conversation sometimes seem 
as if they would fly out of their skins. Ariel himself could 
not be more nimble. In caricature of rapid enunciation 
and grotesque gesture they eclipse their very Polcinellos 
— shoulders up to their ears, heads thrust forward, eyes 
starting from their sockets, their fingers all drawn to- 
gether to their tips, and both hands in this manner quiv- 
ering with electric life, and thrust almost into the faces of 
the party addressed, the voice meanwhile squeaking in 
the highest possible falsetto, and the outlandish Neapoli- 

1 The beggars rap their chins and twirl their hands before their 
mouths to express hunger. 



156 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

tan patois rattling off with such volubility from their 
tongues, so that it is said they often cannot understand 
each other when excited; such is nothing uncommon. 

There is hardly less moderation in the jabbering of the 
Roman peasants. A stranger passing a wine-shop or 
osteria, filled with men and women at their noonday 
meal, might easily suspect that some fierce quarrel was 
going on. It is only the ordinary way of these people. 

We enjoyed greatly this winter in Florence. Our rooms 
were in the Via val Eonda, not far from the Church Santa 
Maria Novella. It was there I began my poem "The 
Bird and the Bell." 

December 20, 184-8. * We called yesterday at the Casa 
Guidi to see Robert Browning and his wife, Elizabeth 
Barrett Browning. Pound her a small, delicate, not hand- 
some invalid, who did not impress me at all at first as the 
poetess and woman of learning and genius she is, till she 
warmed into conversation on some interesting theme, 
such as Italy and the Pope and France. Then her eyes 
shone with a true inward lustre. Her enthusiasm in 
speaking of children and her general goodness of heart 
impressed me most. I thought her somewhat diffident, 
and like one who had lived in retirement most of her 
life. 

Browning is very different; he seems a man who has 
lived in society — a true, social, healthy, open, frank 
nature, entering into life and associating with men, while 
inwardly delicate and poetic. 

Just the man for a dramatist. There is something vig- 
orous and terse and strong in his speech. I should judge 
him a truly warmhearted man, with a great deal of 
magnetism in his nature. 

December 23. Browning called to see us at the house 
1 From the Journal. 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 157 

and to-day at my studio. Both were good, long, real and 
not formal visits. He seems much interested in pic- 
tures. 

I was much indebted to Mrs. Browning this winter for 
her criticism on some lines in my poem "The Bird and 
the Bell," which I had then partly written, and ventured 
to show her. The tone of the poem seemed to please them 
both; but as I had requested criticism from Mrs. Brown- 
ing, she gave it, in a letter which I have from her, and I 
profited by it in my subsequent re-writing of the poem 
during the Italian Revolution. 1 

January. 2 Browning came again to my studio. He 
looked over my sketches with a great deal of interest and 
talked on art and literature and a variety of subjects: a 
most genial man to whom I feel drawn exceedingly. 
Afterwards I went with him to Story's studio, where we 
sat talking for some time. He has a most rounded and 
complete culture; shows great knowledge and apprecia- 
tion of works of art, of which he talked a good deal. Rus- 
kin's book on the old landscape painters, we discussed 
freely. We talked of the works of various old masters. 
Turner he criticised severely; liked Gainsborough and 
Wilson. I find also that he is a musician, plays on the 
piano and shows a great appreciation of the best com- 
posers. 

To Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

I write to ask of you a favor, but before I do so I must 
make a little preface. 

First, be assured that I am speaking sincerely and not 

complimentarily, when I say that ever since I have 

known your poems, I have felt the deepest interest in 

them, and in their author. They have appealed to me, as 

1 Autobiography. * Journal. 



158 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

all the best poetry has and ever will; and it is because I 
have never expressed, as I long to, this sympathy; be- 
cause in conversation we have never met on this en- 
chanted ground, so dear to me also; and because so very 
soon I shall be thousands of miles distant from you, — 
that I am emboldened to write to you now. 

You bear a celebrated name, no less than your hus- 
band. I little dreamed a short time ago I should ever be 
honored so far as to know you both personally. In Amer- 
ica there are many who would envy me the privilege of 
having known you both. Believe me that I say these 
things from no feeling but of love and admiration for 
your writings and Mr. Browning's. What I say is from 
one who feels and loves poetry as the finest intellectual 
tie that can exist between men. I could not leave Flor- 
ence and not strive to express what has lain so long in 
my heart. 

You were kind in expressing so favorable an opinion on 
my lines on Vesuvius. I have lately written something 
better, and the request I have to make, is, that you will 
allow me some day to read it to you, and to give me the 
benefit of any suggestions you may make with regard to 
an improvement on it. 

I ask it, not to seek praise, but candid criticism, and as 
it were to antedate the privileges of an acquaintance, 
which I so much regret must end so soon. Pardon my 
presumption. I could not say what I have, did I not feel 
I was addressing a poet. 

From Mrs. Browning to Mrs. Cranck 

I write to explain to you, my dear Mrs. Cranch, the 
apparent negligence with which Mr. Cranch's letter has 
been treated by us. I am sure you will both forgive us, 
when you know that we have been in affliction, — that 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 159 

my husband has lost his mother and been in great anguish 
of mind, to which I, in my weakness of body could do 
little towards helping to alleviate. Thank God, who has 
helped us both, for he is better and calmer now, and his 
first thought has turned on you, lest you should think 
him unkind. So I write to tell you his opinion of the 
poem, — that nothing in the versification justifies the 
rejection by the American editor, the only exceptionable 
line appearing to him to be the last but one, where the 
rhythm forces you into a false emphasis " As J do." For 
the rest, the poem is full of poetical feeling, and if maga- 
zines in America can afford to reject such, so much the 
better for them, or the worse I The editor probably holds 
to exploded systems of versification which would explain 
something. 

I am sure you will feel for us, dear Mrs. Cranch. There 
was no time to go to England. My poor husband, strong 
in all his affections, adored his mother. See how near 
death and life we are! Our little babe grows fat and 
strong, as if there were no sorrow in the world. God 
bless you! 

Mrs. Browning to Mr. Cranch 

Palazzo Guidi, May 3 (1849). 

We have read your poem with great attention, and will 

set down whatever remarks occur to us, since you insist 

on such a piece of impertinence. 

"Sweet bird, the fresh, clear sparkle of thy voice 
Came quickening all the fountains," etc. 

A beautiful metaphor taken from rain. I particularly like 
it. Why in the next line, not "list to thee" — rather 
than "listen thee "? 

"Fresh message from the beauty infinite 
. That wraps the universe in wonder and delight." 



160 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

If beauty wraps the universe, there is no need to send 
messages. Therefore the figure does not appear happy. 

"That lives above the world"; or, 

"Reigns above the world." Quaere ? 

and so also you get the other advantage of the pause in 
the long line, which strikes us as being too much neg- 
lected throughout the poem. In exceptional cases an 
effect is produced by this neglect of this pause, only the 
cases ought to be exceptional. 

The "bell" is effectually described, but my husband 
objects to the "nerve of nature struck by a wound," and 
observes that nobody is struck by a wound, but by a 
blow, — quaere, "felt a wound" or "suffered wound"? 
Also in the long line of the same stanza can "lightning" 
be supposed to "catch a living breath"? The expression 
seems vague and not happy. 

"For one who loves to dwell," etc.; these two stanzas 
are excellent, the language full and emphatic. I like too 
(farther on) the "sitting in altar nooks and burning 
candles to its god," though the syllables are too many. I 
like the thought, the image. 

"By a rude populace," "languished beneath a frown," 
is not a good line, we both think, and it might so easily be 
improved. The accentuation is wrong, and no good effect 
is produced by the license. 

"Take the poet's verse 
But not the poet." 

All this has much truth and beauty. 
Do "vampire pinions" work "enchanted sleep"? Is 
the metaphor right? 

"Lies stereotyped," etc.; very good the expression is. 
"The angel smiles," etc.; beautiful lines. 

"Of nature, along whose endless arc are strown" — 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 161 

Why not "o'er" or "on whose endless," etc.? — on ac- 
count of the structure of the line which does not bear 
"along"; also this same "along" occurs afterward in the 
final line. 

"Whose only crime was that ye were awake, 
Too soon," etc. 

I admire this and the winding up is full of beautiful 
truth. 

The next time the bird sings we both of us hope, dear 
Mr. Cranch, that he may not be interrupted. Once more 
allow us to thank you for the proof of confidence, which, 
believe us, is responded to by my husband's regard and 
that of yours most truly 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

My love to Mrs. Cranch; am I not to see her soon? 

Mrs. Cranch used to tell this little story about the 
Brownings and the Browning baby: — 

While we were living in the Via val Fonda in Florence 
in 1849, we wished to present our letter of introduction 
from Margaret Fuller to Mr. and Mrs. Browning. Asking 
William Story the etiquette in Italy in such matters, we 
were informed it was proper to leave the letter first with 
our cards, and call a few days later. 

Three days later, Pearse and I went to the Casa Guidi 
and were received most cordially in a beautiful large 
room, by both the Brownings. 

Browning would occasionally walk up and down the 
room with energy, as he talked, while Mrs. Browning 
spoke through her eyes, which were large dark-gray eyes, 
and fine. Later, in the winter, coming into our apartment 
towards evening, Domenica, who was nurse and maid, 
told us that Signor Browning had called. "Oh," I said, 



162 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

" what did the Signor say? " " Che cosa disse il Signore ? " 
"Niente, Signora," answered Domenica, "non cammi- 
nava, ballava." "Nothing, Madam, he did not walk, he 
danced"; and then repeated what Browning had said, 
"la Signora Browning afatto un figlio maschio" ("Mrs. 
Browning has given birth to a male child "). This must 
have been delivered with great unction, to judge from 
Domenica's gesticulations. 

After a proper length of time I decided to call and in- 
quire for Mrs. Browning. I rang the doorbell at the Casa 
Guidi, when Browning himself came to the door, and 
seeing who it was, said, in his heartiest tones, "Mrs. 
Cranch, come right in!" and as he said this he drew me 
into the house with both hands. As there was no refusing 
him, I consented to let him ask the nurse if I could see the 
baby, to which answer was brought in the affirmative. I 
entered a darkened room, and there lay Mrs. Browning, 
looking like an angel, with her sweet gray eyes and pro- 
fusion of dark curls. I kissed her hand and murmured 
some kind wish for her health, while Browning, eager to 
show me the little blossom, drew me to a corner covered 
with white muslin and pink curtains, saying, "Now, you 
must see the baby!" 

I gazed into this bower of rose-color and lace, unable to 
distinguish anything beside the soft color and dainty 
fabric. But something must be said, so I murmured, 
"How beautiful!" But Browning was not to be put off 
in this way. 

"Do you see him?" said he. 

"No, truly," I was forced to answer. 

He then went and brought a cerina, a little wax taper, 
and by its soft, flickering light, I was at last able to behold 
the Browning baby. . . . Later on, when Browning hap- 
pened into our rooms one day, and our own dear baby lay 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 163 

asleep in her cradle, Browning stooped over, and kissing 
her on the forehead without awakening her, said, "Now 
she has a poet's blessing!" 

George William Curtis to Mrs. Cranch 

Paris, February 25, 1849. 

Yesterday the Republic completed its first and I my 
twenty-fifth year ! Think of it, Lizzie, a quarter of a cen- 
tury ! I begin already to totter and feel grey hairs on my 
head, and Burrill groans because every birthday of mine 
sets him so sadly forward. The day was celebrated by 
these Frenchmen very coldly. The crowds were small. 
The cry was "Vive Napoleon!" and nothing was striking 
except the front of the beautiful Madeleine draped in 
black and along the broad street which is its avenue from 
the Place de la Concorde, huge funeral vases and urns 
flaring and smoking with incense. This and the Temple 
itself was Greek. But the French genius does so travesty 
everything it touches. And then Lamartine says in a 
gush of enthusiasm, "If God has a great work to do he 
elects a Frenchman to do it." In saying that, he speaks 
for France and that is the reason he is so really pop- 
ular. . . . 

Now I am going to plunge into gossip, because it is a 
shame for me to be seeing and hearing Paris and not tell 
you about it. So we'll go to the opera where Alboni is 
singing with Ronconi, and where I heard Lablache. The 
house is small but very rich, not so spacious and tasteful 
and unique as the Berlin opera house, which is the first I 
have seen in Europe, St. Carlo and La Scala not excepted 
altho' they are much larger. Alboni is a young fat Italian, 
singing for her third season. She has no genius, and can- 
not act, but her voice is the most exquisite contralto I can 
fancy. It is precisely the voice you would imagine in an 



164 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

easy handsome Italian woman, if it was first rate and 
contralto. The sweetness and purity and power are de- 
licious. She crushes her eyes together as she sings, though 
never making faces, just as your soul smiles and folds it- 
self together in the listening. Your sense becomes a great 
serpent which stretches and rolls and doubles up in the 
great gush of golden sunshine. Her soprano part is very 
true and clear and sweet, only not so singularly strong 
and rich as the contralto. In some songs she comes from 
a pure point of soprano height floating down through 
strange and true intervals, until the pyramid of sound is 
completed in your thought by grand massive sweeps of 
contralto which build the base, and you feel as if you saw 
the angels on Jacob's dream-ladder descending from 
heaven indeed, but with every step into more perceptible 
beauty. If you lose yourself and laugh in this extraordi- 
nary pot-pourri of metaphor, you can imagine the better 
how deliciously you lose yourself in the sweet whirlpool 
of sound, and if you laugh, so much the better resem- 
blance. . . . 

Walter Savage Landor, who, by the way, in a sonnet 
to Robert Browning compares his firm tread and cheer- 
ful eye to Chaucer, says that imagination shines even 
more "gloriously" in Tennyson than in Keats. That is 
perceptive praise, the criticism of a sympathetic soul. 
Keats died a boy. He was tangled in his own magnificent 
luxuriance. How I do love these men, Keats, Shelley, 
Tennyson, and Browning. On the other hand is Taylor, 
whose "Philip van Artevelde" I have just happened to 
read for the first time, more's the shame and pity. It 
seems as if it must have come, independent of the man. 
The preface is puerile, the interlude diluted. Wordsworth, 
and all his other poems that I have read, hard and bare 
and dead. But the character of Philip van Artevelde is 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 165 

carved with a sculptor's cunning. It is so simple and 
great that it reveals how in statesmanship, as everywhere 
else, the elements are few. A little light, color, and quan- 
tity makes the world. He is always strong, but sweet and 
always a man, but a man of his own time. That is an 
artistic success not always accomplished. Adriana is a 
deep sketch and delicate as deep. A few strokes, but the 
soul, the individual soul, shines through. Then what a 
natural tragedy the book is. How it shows him stepping 
from obscurity to success, loving the state much, but his 
wife more. Then after the death of his wife, his whole 
nature not sapped nor broken nor soured, but subdued — 
all his strength saddened. That was a fine thing. Such 
strength does not wither, but just as sweet and still, it is 
mournful forever after. Sorrow sweeps over it as twilight 
closes over the landscape. Everywhere the same forms 
and colors — nothing changed — yet all different, even 
the flowers, sad. 

Besides, I have been reading "La Nouvelle Heloise" 
and Lamartine's "Girondins," also his "Raphael" and 
" Confidences." The latter is his " Confessions," although 
not an entire autobiography. It is rather a series of ro- 
mantic and picturesque passages from the experience as 
a poet. They are very beautiful and interesting. The 
notices of certain men are striking, though not many, and 
the romance of Graziella, a Naples fisher girl, who died 
for love of Lamartine, is truly delicious. But the whole 
book is drenched in tears of the author. He believes that 
all great things in life begin and end with larmes. This 
becomes ridiculous at last. It is the purest, most trans- 
parent French I know. I saw Lamartine at the opera the 
other evening. He looks older than I thought (he is fifty- 
nine) and around his mouth, whose lips are fallen, flits 
and fades a phantom of vanity. Lamartine is vain, but 



166 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

he is moulded in a happy mood of nature. The brow, 
eyes and nose are most generous. They are full of lofty 
sentiment, and you feel magnetically that he is capable 
of great acts, like his resisting the red flag with the guns 
of a French mob pointed at him, — when they are the 
inspirations of great ideas. He is not great in the general 
sense, because his best things are emotions and enthu- 
siasms. But unlike most men, he is silent when he is not 
soaring. 

. . . They were singing Semiramide with Alboni, whose 
voice seems an accident like the beauty of many women. 
I mean you do not feel the presence of greatness of soul 
which must have some sort of expression. . . . Jenny 
Lind's voice was the hand of her genius. It is not so much 
any one thing, as the charm of her entire personality 
which makes her greatness. She acts as well as she sings, 
and both acting and singing are only flowers of a life 
which is deep and sweet as her nature. When Alboni 
cannot sing she will be only a memory. But any present 
of Jenny Lind's must be as beautiful as any past. 

Then I heard Lablache, great, wonderful man, full of 
fun, full of sound, the largest man and the largest voice 
in the world. When he pours it out you forget everything 
else. The theatre, the orchestra, singers, Alboni, Ron- 
coni, and chorus are all merged. It is a deluge in which we 
are all lost. But he is too good an artist, too much a lover 
of music ever to sport wantonly with his might. He 
"roars you as 'twere any sucking dove," so melodiously 
he thunders. And such ease and sweetness withal, and so 
distinct a pronunciation, that you feel how inadequate 
fame is to really great and good things. . . . 

Cerrito dances at the French opera, too, with her re- 
markable husband Saint-Leon. They have produced a 
ballet called "Le violon du Diable" in which they both 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 167 

dance and he plays the violin, with a pathetic power 
which amazed me. I was not surprised to hear that in 
Germany lf£ had been entirely a musician. He is a man 
of singular talent, and is the only male dancer that is not 
disgusting. His feats are wonderful, and better, — they 
are graceful. He composed the ballet which is full of deli- 
cately designed tableaux. One I remember in which Cer- 
rito stands elevated like the figure of Apollo in the 
"Aurora" holding high the golden reins, which confine 
several of the ballet dancers, while others surround her 
as the hours. She is most feminine and fascinating. Not 
queenly like Fanny Ellsler, nor stately like Lucile Grahn, 
nor voluptuous like Carlotta Grisi, she streams like sun- 
shine over the stage rather than bounds, and is always 
the affectionate woman. 

Rachel, too, in the intense paroxysms of passionate 
tragedy, is terrible and sublime. She is young and wasted 
and her eyes are worn with bitter sorrow. She plays in 
Racine's tragedies, which are Greek, you know, and as 
Phedre, Rachel is marvellous. It is the pure suffering 
woman, but a woman of the elder Grecian mould, the 
victim of Fate, and of a passion which loses her soul. 
Rachel is young and slight. Her features are very deli- 
cate, her mouth a little coarse, and her figure of a stately, 
proud grace. Her voice is very sweet and solemn and 
still, of a low tone, and because it is the silence, not the 
sound of passion, there can never be a suspicion of rant. 
In the French drama the unities are strictly observed. 
The curtain never falls, the attention is undistr acted to 
the end. Never for a moment is she other than the person 
she represents. So perfect is this artistic skill that I can- 
not conceive her as an actual Parisian person. If I think 
of her, my imagination recedes over great waste dead 
ages, and in front of a Grecian or Persian temple, like the 



168 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

genius of that Fate, tearless because too terrible for tears, 
she stands, and if she speaks, it is like the Sphinx speak- 
ing — words, coining feelings, of which we suspect the 
substance from the mighty shadow. 

. . . Shall you certainly go as soon as April? Why not 
wait until softer, sweeter May? more propitious to Medi- 
terranean voyaging. Let me hear at least a month before 
you are resolved to go, that I may come and have some 
final weeks with you, and so get myself associated with 
your last, as your first, European days. It would be good 
too that they should be in Florence. If you can, put off 
Vallombrosa, etc., until I can go with you, for although I 
cannot promise absolutely to come, yet it is rare that I 
hold anything so near my heart as this plan, without its 
being warmed into life. 

Margaret Fuller to Mrs. Cranch 

Rome, 9th March, 1849. 
I was very glad to have you write that you are going 
home, for, though I sympathize most deeply with any one 
who is fitted to prize Italy and has to leave her, and know 
how much I shall suffer myself, yet this is no time for an 
artist to be here, nor is there any strong probability of 
tranquillity at present. Few people would come, Pearse 
would have but few and scanty orders, and with these 
two young children, and your constitution so delicate, 
you might have too trying a time, and become old ! That 
is the poison of care; one might bear the strongest dose, 
just for the time, but it makes youth grey-haired. I hope 
you will find many friends, new and old, who will carry 
about Georgie and Nora in their arms, and prize the 
genius of Pearse and that some few years hence you 
will return, under happier circumstances, to Venice, to 
Florence, to Rome. 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 169 

O Rome, seat of the gods! I do regret you have 
not been here this winter of perpetual sunshine. The 
Cropseys will be disappointed at not finding you. They 
go from here the eighteenth, and Mr. Cropsey had ex- 
pected to enjoy sketching excursions with Pearse in the 
neighborhood of Florence. . . . 

Also I hope when you are well refreshed at home, you 
will write me a joint letter telling me of yourselves and 
all other persons and things you think will interest me. 
It will be a great boon; write fine and much, and tell me 
of my friend Carrie Tappan anything you may know. I 
hear little from herself. If you do write me a line now, let 
me know how it has gone with Mrs. Browning. I am very 
glad you had such pleasure in their acquaintance; a little 
of the salt of the earth is more than ever needed in this 
hot climate. It is a shame I cannot have the "Bells." It 
is here I want to read the Italian things again, half mem- 
ories of them keep tormenting me. 

Pearse's Colonna poem was incorporated into one of 
my letters, with mention of the picture, and, no doubt, 
printed, though I never received the number of the 
"Tribune" which contained it. The poem from Naples 
I never sent; that needs the clear type and margins of 
a magazine, or perhaps he will publish a volume on his 
return. Now you are going, I wish you would send me 
Emerson's poems, else I may see them no more for a long 
time, unless you have made pencil marks, or for some 
other reason are anxious to keep that particular copy. 

The Storys have been here a week, after a doleful de- 
tention at Leghorn, and a very sick night on the steamer. 
They have a tolerably pleasant apartment, and enjoy 
themselves as usual. The first day they were seeking the 
apartment, Sunday, we had luncheon at Mr. Crawford's 
and afterwards went to St. Peter's where the only time 



170 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

this winter was not fine music. The second day, I passed 
with them, and in the afternoon we walked about Villa 
Borghese; Wednesday evening we saw the Vatican by 
torch light; it is now my third enjoyment of this always 
greater delight. Since, I have not seen them. 

My friend, Mazzini, is now here; his proper great occa- 
sion has come to him at last, whether he can triumph over 
the million difficulties with which it is beset I know not, 
but he will do all that may become a man. Good-bye, and 
may your homeward course be every way prosperous. 
We shall meet again probably in a year or two, meanwhile 
I pray you keep your hearts ever open for your friend 

Margaret. 

Mr. and Mrs. Cranch and the nurse and children 
left Florence in the summer for Paris. They were 
rejoiced to meet again George and Burrill Curtis and 
Tom Hicks. The cholera was raging in Paris, two 
hundred persons dying a day. They were careful 
about exposing themselves to the sun, and of their 
diet, and remained well. George Curtis accompanied 
them to Havre and to the ship, seeing them aboard. 
Harriet, the black nurse, was stricken with cholera. 
Here was a quandary. They could not leave her 
to die nor be sure she would be taken aboard. 
The captain solved the difficulty by calling it in- 
flammatory rheumatism. She was taken aboard, 
isolated, and in a week got well. 

The following extracts are from Mrs. Cranch's 
Journal: — 

July 8, 1849. On board the St. Denis on our homeward 
passage from Havre. We are now nearly halfway across 
the ocean, and this afternoon, the sea being tranquil, I 
can record a word or so of the past. . . . We arrived in 



FLORENCE AND THE BROWNINGS 171 

Paris late in the evening of the 1st of June, after riding in 
diligence all through France by night and day with our 
two little ones . . . never shall I forget our satisfaction 
when arriving late at Paris ... we found George and 
Hicks waiting for us at the diligence office. We had 
nothing to do but to get into a carriage and ride to No. 50 
Rue de Rivoli, where were rooms all ready that George 
had taken for us in the same house that he was in; and a 
very nice one too it was — just opposite the garden of the 
Tuilleries and very near the beautiful Place de la Con- 
corde and the Champs Elysees, where we used to walk in 
the cool of the evening. We were a fortnight in Paris and 
the time did gallop withal. Good times were those, happy 
times with fun and frolic, and tender moments too — 
never to be forgotten. 



CHAPTER X 

NEW YORK 

The following is from the Autobiography: — 

We arrived in New York August 7, 1849, after a pas- 
sage of forty-seven days. I shall not forget how particu- 
larly I was struck with the American faces on landing at 
New York. I never before saw the national cast of fea- 
tures. Now I was compelled to see it, in spite of myself. 
It seemed as if I had arrived among a new people. Among 
them all there was a general likeness, as typical as on the 
faces of the English, Irish, or Italians. There was a cer- 
tain hard, weary expression around the mouth, a quick 
shrewdness of eye, a solemn, care-worn, anxious look, as 
they hurried past each other. Every one seemed anxious 
and worried about something. 

I was no less struck with the want of manners in my 
countrymen. What a contrast to the Italians and French ! 

In melancholy keeping with the people seemed the 
streets and houses. How did Broadway seem shorn of its 
glory! How houses, which I once looked upon as very 
large, had dwarfed and dwindled away! How ugly 
seemed all the buildings! But remember, this was in 
1849, and the improvements in all these things have been 
immense. 

Going into the country, as we did after landing, the 
scenery at first seemed monotonous, in form and color. 
Italy had spoiled me. It was some time before I could 
discover really picturesque material in the landscape. 
One thing, however, we had in perfection — Sunsets — 
such as one never sees in Europe. 



NEW YORK 173 

We all went up to Fishkill to the Homestead, and to A. 
J. Downing's at Newburgh. In November we returned 
to New York, and took rooms with some friends in Mac- 
Dougal Street. My studio, if I remember, was in Broad- 
way, corner of Houston Street. In the summer I was in 
Sheffield, Massachusetts, where I made a visit to our 
friends the Deweys. I was at work there painting out of 
doors. We were all much saddened this summer by the 
tragical death of our friend Margaret Fuller. 

In 1851 I went to Lake George and visited Jervis 
McEntee at Rondout, and returned with him and a 
party of friends to Lake Shawangunk, now called Lake 
Mohunk. My wife and I and our two children went to 
Lenox, Massachusetts, in the summer of 1852 and had not 
been there long when we were summoned away by the 
sad news of the death of Lizzie's mother, and of her 
brother-in-law A. J. Downing, by drowning in the Hud- 
son River in the disaster to the steamboat Henry Clay, 
on July 28. 

A party of De Windts and friends left Fishkill 
Landing for a day's excursion on the beautiful Hud- 
son. When nearly home, the boat raced another 
steamer, and must have burst a boiler, for Mrs. De 
Windt was struck and carried under, causing proba- 
bly instant death. Mr. Downing was a large man 
and a fine swimmer, who thought nothing of swim- 
ming across the Hudson River and back again. Un- 
fortunately a stout woman clung to him in the des- 
perate grasp of a death-struggle, and he was helpless. 
His wife could not swim. She and her sister, Mary 
De Windt, were assisted with a chair and a board 
and floated safely to shore. Frank de Windt, then 
about sixteen years old, was in the party. When the 



174 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

bodies were brought ashore, Mr. De Windt was 
stunned by the blow. He paced up and down all day 
and all night, finding it difficult to realize this great 
affliction, coming so suddenly upon him. 

This home, my father and mother, George Curtis, 
and others often visited. Mr. and Mrs. Downing 
were ideal hosts. Mr. Downing was a man of rare 
taste and judgment in art, and my aunt was an ex- 
cellent housekeeper, having, besides, wit and intel- 
ligence. Mr. Downing was able to carry out his own 
aesthetic ideas in his grounds and in his house. My 
mother used to tell me how he would place a bunch 
of flowers at each guest's plate for breakfast. These 
were always selected with reference to the prefer- 
ences of his friends for certain flowers, and his nice 
discrimination and knowledge of their characters. 
To the tender-hearted he offered tea-roses and 
honeysuckle, to the modest and shy, violets and 
pansies, to the brilliant and gay, crimson roses, 
mangolds, asters, carnations, etc. 

When the gates of his villa closed, — it was a 
palace and garden all in one, — all care and trouble 
were shut out, all joy and pleasure shut in. Instead 
of Dante's motto over the gates of "Inferno," 
"Leave all hope, ye who enter here!" it was, "Leave 
all care and tribulation, ye who enter here!" Like 
unto heaven it was! Enter into the fulness of joy 
and harmony thereof ! To my mother it was a para- 
dise where friends met congenial friends, and where 
the feast of reason and flow of soul mingled with 
delicately seasoned meats, fruits and wines. 

A monument to the talent of Mr. A. J. Downing 
was later erected in Newburgh by his friends ?.nd 
admirers. His loss was one the general public :;elt 



NEW YORK 175 

to be great, his talents lifting him above ordinary 
men. 

The Autobiography continues : — 

In 1853, at Fishkill Landing, May 7, was born our 
daughter Caroline Amelia, named after her grandmother 
Mrs. De Windt. We were then living in the little house 
called The Bothie. During this summer I made a visit to 
Niagara to my friend Peter A. Porter, of two or three 
weeks, and made several careful studies of the Falls. 

This year we received two letters from the Brownings. 
The first was addressed to me, the second to Lizzie. They 
were written on the same sheet of paper, both in micro- 
scopic hands, to which they were somewhat necessitated, 
as their letters were enclosed to me in one from Story. 

W. W. Story to Mr. Cranck 

Vienna, October 27, 1849. 

Through George Curtis I have just heard of your arri- 
val at New York, with divers perils by sea and land. 
Thank Heaven that all is then well with you, and that 
you are among friends and kindred. Up to the moment 
of your departure I was fully informed of all that occurred 
by George C, and it was with the truest sympathy and 
anxiety that my thoughts accompanied you across the 
water. Bravo, then, old Ebony! She would not die. She 
had no idea of shuffling off her black mortal coil so easily. 
That 's what it is to have a servant of determination and 
character. . . . 

How then does America seem to you after Italy? Is it 
dull, stupid, prosaic and boastful, or does it seem to have 
compensations for this utter unpicturesqueness of life? 
Are the sunsets on the Hudson finer — I think they are 
— than those we saw at Sorrento last year? But the 
breath of orange flowers, dear Pearse, the Loggia where 



176 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

we used to sit, — old Vesuvius' perturbed spirit — Capri, 
the dim, purple, island Sphinx. These you have not. 
These I have not, except in memory. And Rome, my 
dear friend, Rome, does not that seem to you ideal now? 
It does to me. Good Heavens, when I was last there, I 
grew to it as to a mistress ! There seemed an inspiration 
in its air. I could not but weep to leave it. 

Pray, write, and encourage me about home — for now 
I begin to fear that I shall not be contented at home. Yes 
indeed, I begin seriously to consider whether Rome is not 
the true home for me. Were it not for its climate I should 
not hesitate. Yet home is a clinging prejudice. 

I stayed in Florence a week — it was intensely hot and 
filled with Austrian soldiers, and them I could not bear to 
see. From Florence we went to Milan. In Parma I saw 
Correggio in his glory. I had no idea of his magnificence 
before. Such color, — clear, delicate yet strong, and lu- 
minous; light and yet warm, rich and yet soft and ten- 
der, never in the least gaudy, yet full-toned and powerful, 
— I never saw. His frescoes are wonderful, and though 
injured, are worth crossing the Atlantic to see. I had 
expected sweetness and delicacy, but I was unprepared 
for the grandeur of him, the largeness of form, the breadth 
and power of his works. His Madonna della Scodella and 
St. Gerome are quite unequalled by anything I ever saw. 
The young Christ in the former is divine. He is one of 
those blossoms of truth and innocence, which in rarest 
moments and under happiest auspices, we see for a mo- 
ment on the tree of humanity, a child angel, with a smile 
that realizes heaven on earth. Basta! I could write a 
quire on the subject! 

From Milan to Vevay and Geneva, then to Interlaken, 
where we fixed ourselves for the summer, and had George 
Curtis with us, and an agreeable company. From here 



NEW YORK 177 

Curtis, Bliss and I, went over the Oberland Bernese, on 
foot with our knapsacks on our backs. I will not rush into 
raptures, — you can imagine all better than I can tell. 
It was more than I had dared hope, and after the luxuries 
of art in Italy it was a striking change, to come at once 
into the wild sublimity of nature. What themes for pencil 
and brush are here! How many times I wished I could 
summon you to my side, as I looked over these Alpine 
heights, where beauty and grandeur live so strangely 
together. George was an admirable companion, always 
sympathizing, ready to admire, indefatigable — ever 
good natured, ever interesting. It was a real joy to meet 
him and know him, and see him three months together. 
At Geneva, George left me, to go with Quincy Shaw 
towards the East, and I returned to Interlaken. From 
Interlaken, when the summer was ended, E. and I and 
the children took our course down the Rhine to Baden- 
Baden and Heidelberg, then struck across to Munich, 
and thence down the Danube to Vienna, where we are 
now. . . . 

I found the Germans very polite, social and agreeable. 
Travelling here is wondrous easy after the toiling vettura 
and the cheating Italian mob. But one's money here 
eats dreadful holes in the pockets. Everything is expen- 
sive. The prices are at least double what they are in 
Italy. Of music, we have concerts nearly every evening 
by Straus's band and others. . . . Never was there a people 
for eating like this. The restaurateur is an essential por- 
tion of every festival meeting. Eating, smoking, drinking 
of beer and wine seems an absolutely necessary accom- 
paniment of music, and oftentimes the smoke of cigars in 
the concert or ball rooms is suffocating. They shut up 
every window, heat up the room, light their cigars, — off 
goes the band in a whisking waltz, and the Vienner is a 



178 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

happy man. Here is there an immense deal to see in the 
way of art. The picture galleries are numerous and very 
rich. The finest Murillos I have ever seen are here, and 
some fine Correggios and Raffaelles, and some pictures 
by Rubens which astonished me by their magnificence of 
color and tremendous energy. But despite all the objects 
of interest, and the social gaiety, and amusements of the 
people, I pine for Italy. I do not like the subserviency 
here to the sword and gilt-lace uniform. The streets 
swarm with officers and soldiers, and I think often of 
poor, oppressed Italy. Radetsky is here, — a little red- 
eyed man — and Jellachich is in the same house with us. 
The Emperor, a youth of nineteen, we see constantly at 
the theatre and on the streets. 

At Munich I was delighted. It is most grateful to one's 
eyes to see what the late King has done here for art. The 
whole city has been renewed and built in the best taste, 
and here is the centre of the new German School of 
Painting. . . . Art here is at least alive, and struggling for 
existence, and the patronage is enormous and unbigoted. 
Every artist has had his chance. . . . 

In a day or two we are off to Venice, which after so long 
waiting for, I shall at last see! 

To his brother Edward 

Sheffield, Berkshire Co., Mass., 
August 25, 1850. 

What has become of our promises and vows? Swal- 
lowed up in the wide sea of circumstances; swamped and 
foundered in the bogs of procrastination; lost in the fogs 
of absence, distance, separation; or stranded high and 
dry on the rocks of labor and occupation? The spirit of 
epistolary correspondence has clean died out of us, and 
the body must be set agoing, if not by a new soul, then by 



NEW YORK 179 

spasmodic galvanic shocks. So here goes for a small bat- 
tery, dead or alive. . . . 

I intend this as simply a leaf torn from the volume of 
my present life. I have not really the patience to post up 
past accounts. It is sufficient to say that I am here, fam- 
ily and all, boarding in this, greatest of little Sunday- 
go-to-meeting villages, amid very nice scenery, and here 
have been, over a month. I first came alone, and made a 
visit to the Deweys, who live here; then came Lizzie, 
the children, and maid, and took board in a quiet, nice 
family, where we shall continue till about September 
first. Then I shall go to Catskill Clove with Mr. Durand. 
I have been working out of doors, as steadily as circum- 
stances will permit. Whenever it does not rain, I am 
usually out painting. I have improved, I think, in paint- 
ing from nature, since I saw you. My pictures in the 
Academy Exhibition last spring were favorably noticed, 
and one of them bought by the Art Union. It was on the 
strength of them, most probably, that I was elected an 
associate of the Academy. 

I should like to hear from you, how you are getting on. 
Are you driven as much as ever? Do you get time for 
anything but work? Write me, but don't write in the 
vein of your letter of last winter. I don't like to think that 
your theory, or your life, should be all sacrificed, made up 
of nothing but duty. Or at least I want to hear some time 
that your duty and your inclinations both point in the 
same direction. O, why were you not an artist; or a lit- 
erary man, or an editor, or a farmer; or anything for 
which God and nature fitted you, rather than a lawyer? 
Somewhere in those vocations lies your proper sphere. 
But fate has driven you from the lines of intellectual 
attraction, and made your life that of a mill wheel and 
a cart horse. Will it not be some time or other that you 



180 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

will burst from that chrysalis state, of court-room pen- 
drudgery and law books, and spread your wings, never to 
fold them again in the old cocoon prison? Such talents, 
such a nature, intellectual and moral, and affectional, and 
humorsome, every way rare, as yours, should find its 
sphere, and there should be, now, people who would so 
appreciate them, that they could create such a sphere for 
you. I, for one, hope to live to see your emancipation. I 
pray Heaven it may come quickly. 

W. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

Boston, December 25, 1850. 
Your warm, kind, affectionate greeting to America 
ought long ago have been answered, but I had hoped, 
long ere this to have clasped your hand and looked into 
your eyes, and travelled back with you on the wings of 
spoken words to our dear old Italy. Fate, however, — 
whose American name is business — has bound me here 
hand and foot, and I know not that I shall be able to 
carry out my project of visiting your New York this 
winter. . . . Dear Pearse, if I thought I should never 
again go to the other and better world — I mean Italy, — 
I think life would merit Mr. Mantilini's description and 
be a " demd horrid grind." A barrel organ with a boy who 
smiles Italian, is all the trace of those soft skies beneath 
which we lived so happily together, which even now 
greets my eyes. The mania which possesses all here, has 
possessed me, despite my best effort. / am at work in the 
law — fearfully at work. No ! My dear friend, not per- 
manently — God forbid — temporarily is bad enough. 
It was in this way that I fell into the pit. Walking down 
Washington street a few days after my arrival, I stopped 
in to see how the inside of Little & Brown's bookshop 
looked, little knowing that I was putting my head into a 



NEW YORK 181 

lion's den. Mr. Brown pounced upon me, seized me, car- 
ried me into his interior den, told me that my book on Con- 
tracts and the Commentaries on the Constitution must 
at once be edited and that I must do it. I remonstrated. 
In vain ! I sat me down in a little back room, and I have 
been his slave for two months. Now in two days I am 
free, having done incredible work. One has a sort of fool- 
ish pride in one's literary offspring. My law books had 
succeeded, and paid well, and made me a hero — when I 
was n't known — and I could not allow a new edition to 
go forth without improving it all in my power. And this 
pride has cost me two months. Now, my biography of 
my father awaits me, and this must be done at once. 
Then I shall be free for art, and art it shall be for my life. 

I examined and cross-examined Dwight about all you 
boys, and especially about Lizzie and you and the chil- 
dren. He gave good accounts of you, but all that he said 
only increased my appetite for you. I want to ask you 
truly how you get along, and whether the wheels turn 
easily or not, and whether I can do anything for you. 
You know, or ought to know, that you ought never to 
need when I can help you. My purse, my dear friend, is 
ever at your service. Let us spend together and make life 
as happy as we can. You will not be vexed at this sug- 
gestion, I feel. I don't know why there should ever be 
any shamefacedness about such matters. If fortune has 
been better friends with me than you, she makes me her 
agent to give to those whom I love. . . . 

Lizzie's very pleasant note reached Emelyn the other 
day, and we both were delighted to hear from her. I hope 
she still keeps us in green remembrance, which being in- 
terpreted means, that she remembers all the good and 
forgets all the bad. Perhaps Emelyn may go with me to 
New York, if the weather looks more subdued and gentle. 



182 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

I do not at all stand this climate. I break all to pieces, 
before these sharp winds. There seems to be no atmos- 
phere, and the sunshine is so white and glittering and 
ghastly, that it seems as if it had lost its soul. The shad- 
ows are all so thin and weak and grey; the light so color- 
less; the lines of architecture so sharp and hard; all things 
so liney and wanting in tone, that it seems to me as if 
America had been bewitched during my absence. There 
is nothing which has come up to my recollections except 
the conflagrations in the clouds and sky at sunset, and 
the autumn hectic in the forests. Tone to a landscape, is 
what sentiment is to a mistress, and it is just this lack of 
tone that I find in our nature. 

The cold winds and the tense atmosphere, have been 
chiselling me down and channelling out the old furrows, 
which when I returned were somewhat blended. I grow 
older here in a month than in a year abroad. 

To the Misses Myers 

New York, June 22, 1851. 

I am such an old hardened sinner that I have long ago 
given up all hopes of pardon from you; at least, I should 
abandon all hope, did I not know you all to be angels of 
love and forgiveness. . . . We are the creatures of cir- 
cumstance, there is no use in denying it, and yet God 
forbid that beggarly circumstance should have power to 
change the essence of the soul. That remains like the 
sun, moon and stars, the other is but the clouds. And I am 
sure that you, my dear friends of younger days, know 
me too well, to think that the clouds that shut us out from 
each other are anything but unsubstantial vapor. 

As to outward events they are unimportant. In No- 
vember we were settled in the great city, where we have 
remained ever since. My health and that of my wife and 



NEW YORK 183 

children has been uninterrupted by any sickness, and on 
the whole I have had quite a good time — grow younger, 
if anything, in my feelings and habits of life, work at my 
studio, and just scratch along, poor and economical, still 
surrounded with blessings innumerable. In painting I 
am improving, have several pictures in the Exhibition, 
and now and then, like angels' visits, fall in with a pur- 
chaser. In this country Art just lives — it is far from 
flourishing. The artist has need of all his courage and 
patience to stick to his vocation. I am confident there 
would be better success in Italy, and had I means, I 
should go there again. Here, surrounded by a selfish, 
commercial, money making, rushing, driving, and wholly 
conventional community, what can an artist do? People 
when they do find time amid their eternal driving and 
hurry-scurry to come into a studio, only admire and go 
away to their eternal and sempiternal driving. People of 
fashion and so called taste are contented to do this, and 
go home to their palaces and sit down among their lux- 
urious easy chairs and mirrors and curtains, with never a 
picture to screen the nakedness of their walls — not so 
much as one picture even in the way of furniture — that 
would be something. Or if they have a taste this way, 
they expend it on snuffy, dingy, old copies of mediocre 
old Masters. So it goes ! 

No matter, they can't magnetize us out of our pro- 
prium, our essential character. They can't keep us from 
having a good time with those with whom we sympa- 
thize, and there are not a few of those here, and we can at 
least laugh at their ridiculous position, when their backs 
are turned, even if they do tie up their money bags. The 
sun will shine spite of all the clouds. 

And you may suppose it fares pretty much with poetry 
as with painting. 



184 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

The world we make untunes the string 
On which the poet fain would sing. 
His voice is dumb, though it be spring. 

Still, verses accumulate somehow, and I hope by next 
winter to have out a new volume in that line, consisting 
of better things than I have ever published. Then, at 
least, my friends, if not before, you will hear from me. 
And if there were any way of getting a little picture to 
you, I should be glad. As to my ever coming on in bodily 
presence to be among you, I see no chance of it, "any 
way I can fix it." I have not even visited Washington 
since my return to America. . . . 

As for music, I have but little time to practise. I do 
little beside "voluntaries." As I cannot play very diffi- 
cult accompaniments, I sit down and make chords, and 
extemporize, or sing such things as I can accompany, 
when the spirit moves. Neither have I much time for 
books. Had I entire leisure I think I should devote my- 
self much more to verse than anything else. I have a 
poem on this theme, which some day you will see. 

To Mrs, Stearns 

New York, March 10, 1852. 

' I take advantage of a little solitude and the unwonted 

stillness around me — Lizzie having run away from me 

to Newburgh with Mr. and Mrs. Downing, and taken 

Georgie along — to transcribe the long promised little 

Fir-tree poem. 1 And though I have nothing especial to 

say, I shall add a short letter to it. 

1 Translation of Heine's Fichtenbaum : — 

In the far North the Fir tree stands, 

Lonely, upon a craggy height 
He sleeps. The Alpine ice and snow 
Spread o'er his form a veil of white. 

He sleeps, and of the Palm he dreams, 
Who, far away in the Morning land, 

Sorrows in silent loneliness 
Upon her burning hill of sand. 



NEW YORK 185 

I have been making a little visit to Washington, where 
I had not been for nearly six years. I went on in the 
Steamer Baltic and returned in her, as correspondent of 
the " New York Express." The trip was a novel thing, 
and very pleasant. All the passengers fared sumptuously, 
free of expense, and the magnificent steamer was praised 
by all as the model steamship of the nineteenth century. 
In my " Express " letter, I called her one of the modern 
Collins's odes. She went on to show herself, and to in- 
terest Congress in getting an appropriation, but was 
suddenly called back to go to England, etc. All which, is 
it not written in newspapers, and why should I repeat it? 

I found my father very little changed in appearance, 
but exceedingly feeble, and much more deaf than when I 
saw him last. He does not even walk from his easy chair 
to his bed without help, and has not left his room, I 
think for a year. He reads, however, all day. His mind 
is clear, and he is altogether in a beautiful, tranquil state. 
It was a great blessing to me to see him once more. 

I have been making verses somewhat of late. Have 
just been doing something meditative and metaphysical. 
Another sort of poem will appear soon in the " Tribune " 
called "Land Owner and Brain Owner." I cannot say 
when it will come out. They have had it this month on 
their file. Another little thing I have just thrown off, 
which I will send you on another page. I have had no 
chance to read it to any one yet, not even Lizzie, who has 
gone away. It is a sort of Goethian-Emersonian senti- 
ment perhaps, with a truth at the bottom of it. 

THE FLOWER AND THE BEE 

Love me as the flower loves the bee. 
Ask no monopoly of sympathy. 

I must flit by, 
Nor stay to heave too deep a sigh, 



\ 



186 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Nor dive too deep into thy charms. 
Untwine thy prisoning arms; 

Let the truth-garnering bee 

Pass ever free! 

Yield all the thymy fragrance I can draw 

From out thy soul's rich sweetness. Not forever 
Can lovers see one truth, obey one law, 

Though they spend long endeavor. 
Give me thy blossoming heart; 
I can but take thereof that part 
Which grand Economy 
Permitteth me to see. 

Friendship and love may last in name, 

As lamps outlive their flame; 
An earthly tie may bind our hands; 

The spirit snaps the bands. 
If Nature made us different, 
Our compliments in vain are spent; 
But if alike, ah, then I rest in thee 
As in the flower's full heart the sated bee. 



W. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

Rome, March 17, 1852. 
Returning this morning at two o'clock after a long 
stroll, with Black and James Lowell to the Pantheon and 
Piazza Navona, it being the regular fair-day at the latter 
place, I found your delightful letter, breathing warmly of 
you and Lizzie, and I cannot but answer it at once, any 
more than if you were to hold out your hand, I could 
refuse to take it and give it the heartiest of shakes. I 
would that I could transport to you in this letter in some 
condensed form, a portion of this "incense breathing 
morn," of this peerless blue sky, of this delicious light 
which hangs over Rome and the Campagna, and trans- 
figures with its tender distances and bloom the snowy 
amphitheatre of hills. Ma come si fa. If I had the How- 
adji's pen to dip into all sorts of lexicons of language and 



NEW YORK 187 

feeling, perhaps — but with the same old pen which I 
have half used up in the law — and by strange chance it 
is one of those with which I wrote of such matter in 
America — how be poetical or graceful! Dear old 
Cranchio, come hither and breathe this atmosphere with 
me! 

Lent is passing gaily away; four Cardinals have been 
newly created and during the whole of this week are re- 
ceiving at the palaces, where the Roman Princesses gleam 
and flash with tiaras and necklaces of diamonds that 
dazzle the eye with their splendor. The night before last 
we were at the Sciarra, the Colonna, the Santa Croce, 
and the display of jewels was such as I never saw before. 
. . . Curious enough was it to see in the ante-room the 
cloven foot of this splendor, in the shape of a scrivano 
taking down all the names as they were announced, in 
order to call for a buona mano to-morrow. At the Colonna 
Palace the French Ambassador received, a French Car- 
dinal having been created. The scene was splendid in 
those towering rooms, but I experienced a revulsion of 
rage and disgust, when on passing to the last salon, I 
found displayed on the table, pictures representing the 
battles of the Roman Revolution; after so gratuitous an 
insult to the sensibilities of every true lover of liberty, 
and especially of every Italian, I could remain no 
longer. . . . 

The other evening, and without our desire or request, 
came a summons to the Pope, and accordingly we had an 
audience at the Vatican. He was very affable and pleas- 
ant, and has an attractiveness of face and manner which 
shows a good heart. Poor Pio Nono ! He took snuff con- 
stantly, dropping it on his white dress, and after inform- 
ing me that steamers could go from New York to Liver- 
pool in fifteen days, inquired whether they stopped for 



188 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

coal on their passage. He also announced to me that 
Boston was the greatest city in America, therefore you 
see that that question is settled forever. . . . 

Of my own doings in art, a little will suffice. I have 
made my last study for the large statue of my father, and 
my friends like it; at all events, it is far the best thing I 
have done. I am now waiting to procure a fitting studio 
to execute it in large. I have also made a statuette of the 
Lorelei, for which I have a commission. Orders have been 
plenty in Rome this winter as I understand, and Ameri- 
cans particularly are purchasing works by modern artists. 
This is as it should be. . . . 

We are here full of theatricals, and the "Midsum- 
mer-Night's Dream" having succeeded so perfectly, are 
at work in bringing out the "Merchant of Venice." Eme- 
lyn is Jessica; Black, Bassanio; Lowell, Lorenzo; Mrs. 
Raikes, Portia; and I, Shylock. Black is stage struck. 
He eats, drinks and sleeps on theatricals. The day before 
yesterday we were at the Villa Borghese, which was as 
lovely as ever, with its lofty umbrella pines, its dark 
green ilexes, its fountains and shadowy woods. To-day we 
are planning for the Villa Albani, and what a day it is, 
the air all music and perfume with birds and flowers, and 
a cloudless sky! Boott says good-bye to us and is off 
to-day for Florence, which he still persists in preferring 
to Rome, with his cast-steel determination. We had a 
grand musical soiree here in our rooms the other day, with 
Puggi's oboe, Ramacciotti's violin, Wichmann on the 
pianoforte, and Rhienthaler's songs, and among other 
things we had a stringed quartette of Boott's admirably 
performed. It was certainly a triumph for him, and I am 
delighted to say to you, that it was full of science and 
freshness of fancy. The themes were original and naive, 
and the condotta clear and unconfused. It quite surprised 



■f 



BAYARD TAYLOR, 1864 



\ 



NEW YORK 189 

me by its merit, and its piquancy and spirit gained for it 
an unanimous applause. Just where young composers 
fail, he succeeded, in the management of its partition and 
the development of his theme. . . . 

In the Autobiography, Mr. Cranch makes this 
entry: — 

It was in the summer of the year 1853, that I had the 
honor of writing the "Farewell to America," for young 
Jenny Lind — Madame Goldschmidt — at her last ap- 
pearance in this country. Bayard Taylor had written her 
song of greeting. When the great singer was looking for 
some one to write her "Farewell," my friend Mr. Ed- 
mond Benzon mentioned to her my name, and I was 
asked to be her poet. I appreciated the honor, and wrote 
these three stanzas, which Mr. Goldschmidt set to music. 
By appointment I called one morning on Madame Gold- 
schmidt, so that I might have an idea of the melody 
before completing the lines, and she sang them for me 
at the piano, sotto voce. The words seemed to please her 
very much. 

Young land of Hope, fair Western Star, 
Whose light I hailed from climes afar, 

I leave thee now, but twine for thee 
One parting wreath of melody. 

O take the offering of the heart 

From one who feels 't is sad to part. 

And if it be that strains of mine, 

Have glided from my heart to thine, 

My voice was but the breeze that swept 
The spirit chords that in thee slept. 

The music was not all my own, 

Thou gavest back the answering tone. 

Farewell! When other scenes shall rise, 

To greet once more the wanderer's eyes, 



190 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Remembrance still will turn to thee, 

When throbs my heart across the sea. 

Bright Freedom's clime, I feel thy spell 
But I must say, "Farewell, farewell!" 

That night Jenny Lind was in splendid voice, and 
carried the poet's words, up on her clear tones, to great 
heights of melody and feeling. As usual with this great 
singer, there was a furor of applause. To the poet and 
his friends, it was a memorable evening. 

To his brother Edward 

Fishkill Landing, N.Y., July 10, 1853. 

... I have thought of you much and with some anxiety 
since your trouble with your eyes and your relinquish- 
ment of the law. I feel glad somehow to know that there 
is a prospect of your escape, even though it be like a man 
in his shirt escaping from his house on fire — from the 
dungeon of the Doubting-Castle, Law, — which you 
should never have entered, and would not, had you not, 
like Christian, been caught sleeping, i.e. not fully awake 
at the time, to what your sphere should be. . . . 

What a hard thing this is, and hard it is not to grumble 
at it all the time, that in nine cases out of ten a man must 
turn away his eyes from beholding the vanity and folly of 
the course for which nature fashions him, and to which 
all good angels seem to be urging him, if he wants to make 
a living, and dig at something else, — plunge into some 
ditch where he is muddied from top to toe. . . . 

I grow thoroughly discouraged sometimes, of late very 
much so, at the miserable prospects of landscape painting, 
among us. And yet, I don't see anything better for me. 
I have strong twitches sometimes towards authorship, 
and even indulge occasionally in verse, but unless a man 
is sure of a great reputation as a writer, what stimulus is 



NEW YORK 191 

there, what reward? No, better keep on, hopefully. 
Painting is no worse than article writing, and does not 
rack the brain, but is always "attractive labor," which is 
a great thing in its favor. And if a man can only live, 
with wife and children, why, let him have as good a time 
of it, I say, as he can in this brief lifetime. And in this 
way one keeps young. 

And so we Cranches are rejoicing in the abundance of 
our riches, having actually received legacies, not in 
dreams but good, tangible, bankable money; a thing as 
unlooked for by me as the Chinese or Viennese Revolu- 
tion. Rest to his shade, the venerable uncle did some 
good to his deserving relatives, and we will not say grudg- 
ingly, that he might have done more. On these silver- 
tipped wings we will emerge, as long as we may, out of 
the brine and beyond the level of the sea of poverty, like 
flying fish, and say that we too have wings, though we are 
not birds of golden plumage. Providence surely takes 
care of us, for I don't see what I should have done without 
this four hundred and odd dollars, any more than I know 
what I can do without just as much a year hence, which 
I see no prospect of getting, but which Providence, I dare 
say, will send. 

In the July number of the "Putnam's" is an ode to 
Southern Italy, of mine. I shall have other poems, I pre- 
sume, there from time to time. You see "Putnam's," I 
hope. I think it is the best American magazine we have, 
by a great deal. My friend G. W. Curtis is one of the 
editors and writes a great deal for it. 

I hope ere long to bring out my volume of poems. It 
has been ready for publication for some time, but I have 
been waiting till I can publish on good terms for myself, 
and perhaps to keep pruning at it, and perhaps omitting, 
and perhaps write better things. I often feel as if, give 



192 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

me the opportunity, and I have far better things in store 
to be written, than I have ever done. . . . 

W. TV. Story to Mr. Cranck 

Bagni di Lucca, August 22, 1853. 

Three minutes ago I was seized en sursaut with a desire 
to communicate with you, and before my enthusiasm evap- 
orates — for it is warm weather and enthusiasm as well as 
everything else, such as virtue, water, etc., easily evapo- 
rates — I catch it and stick a pin through it, as one would 
transfix a butterfly. Once having begun, a letter is an 
easy and necessary consequence. But it is the beginning 
"which gives us pause." Warned also by a death's-head 
moth with a skull and cross bones distinctly painted on 
his back, which is now leading a melancholy life under a 
tumbler on my table, and preaching the evanescence of 
things, I feel some act of virtue to be demanded of me. 
And what better can I do than to satisfy my conscience 
and friendship at once by a scribble to you? Once in a 
while dribbles over to me a hint of you and George and 
Hicks. You are packed closely into a postscript and 
transmitted to me by mail, safe and sound, and I am 
forced out of such little shadings of information to build 
and fashion the world about you. This is not quite satis- 
factory. I have in my mind when I think of you all, a sort 
of mixed and bewildered idea of Nahant, and "Putnam's 
Magazine," and Broadway, and paint brushes and 
palette, and Syria, and Rome, and "Here is the lip that 
betrayed." 1 All my ideas are about as confused as the 
languages in Roman society. . . . 

And you, who were once a Christian minister, to forget 
the Christian rule of forgiveness — to stand away there 
on your dignity and rights and never write to me because 
1 A song by Richard Willis that Mr. Cranch used to sing. 



NEW YORK 193 

I owed you a letter. You! to keep an account current 
with me and put me down in your memory with "a bill to 
debit one letter." I actually blush for you — I have long 
ceased to perform that graceful action for myself, and 
reserve it entirely for my friends — when your friend 
"Chose" (I never remember names), presented me a 
rascally note of only four lines, and in those four lines 
nothing but " introduce," " friend," " Century Club," and 
such kind of words. I declare I thought you worthy to be 
put in the stocks for such an act. ... If you had cause of 
complaint against me — I don't deny that you had — 
why did you not pepper me with letters — heap coals of 
fire and all that Christian sort of thing — instead of sulk- 
ing into silence and brooding over "bill to debit — one 
letter." Fye upon you, Heathen! Pagan! American! 
Well, nevertheless, I forgive you; it 's as well to be mag- 
nanimous. I forgive you; there's my hand to kiss. 

Here we all are in Lucca at the Bagni Caldi, halfway 
up the Chestnut mountains where the breeze blows cold 
and fresh, and where the summer sun basks on hillsides 
and hanging gardens of vines, where the big burry chest- 
nuts do not grow and drop their green porcupine fruit 
upon the earth, range the vineyards in terraces and give a 
granulated look to the mountain. We look down upon the 
red-tiled tops of the villages and villas below, and see the 
rushing river, the only discontented, hurried American- 
like thing near us, bubble and dash, winding through the 
valley. The contadini go to and fro and up and down the 
mountain paths, bearing on their heads great buckets 
heaped sometimes with charcoal, and sometimes with 
strawberries, apricots, raspberries. The little gray don- 
keys toil to and fro laden with pears, and the women bear 
on their head coppers of flashing water, that never spills 
or loses its even poise. Parties go to picnics or make ex- 



194 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

cursions up the valley, or else up to the old mill with the 
one arch bridge, and the brownly dropping wheel where I 
saw, the other day, looking through one of its dark win- 
dows, the most exquisite living Madonna and Child. We 
live in the Casa Lena built on the site of an old feudal 
castle, but no more like a castle now than I to Hercules. 
On our long balcony that shelters the full length of the 
house, we sit in the earliest morning; all the long evenings 
when the moon throws the shadow of the mountain across 
the valley, as it rises behind its fringed outline of chest- 
nuts, or hanging full, above in the soft upper sky, fills it 
with misty light. 

We leave the gossip to the Cafe below where the little 
world of strangers meets and sits outside in the after- 
noon under an awning, and discusses the nothings of 
the day, while it takes ices and granite. Every even- 
ing we drive out, up and down the river, and follow up 
through its wild rocky overshadowed bed the tumultu- 
ous Lima. For society we have the Brownings, whom 
we find delightful, and with whom we interchange long 
evenings two or three times weekly, besides making ex- 
cursions with them. We often speak of you together, for 
they remember you both with pleasure and interest — 
and Browning promised to give me a note to enclose 
herein for you, so that this husk may have a sweet kernel. 
They are both writing, he a new volume of lyrics, and she 
a tale or novel in verse, which will probably see the light 
of the public square next spring. What offer will Putnam 
make for the proof sheets of these books, and the good 
will of the authors, or has he any proposition to make? 
See, and write. . . . 

I have just sent to Browning and obtained a note from 
him and his wife. Now if in answer to this you don't send 
me a long, well-packed, closely written letter, I shall be- 



NEW YORK 195 

lieve that there is no virtue in man. ... I slept at the 
Crawfords' four weeks under your old picture of St. 
Peter's, and thought of you every morning when I woke 
and saw it looking down upon me. Emelyn had left me 
in Rome to finish my statue, and I stayed with Crawford 
for several weeks. 

Robert Browning to Mr. Cranch 

Bagni di Lucca, August 25, 1853. 
My dear Cranch (for you must let me think we have 
grown good and better friends all this time) — I am 
wholly at your mercy, I know. You wrote me the kindest 
of letters long ago, which gave me all the feelings you in- 
tended it should, do believe; but I delayed answering it 
as my foolish way is, till I set off for England. Then came 
other engagements, and calls on time and thought, — and 
see the result. I hardly know if I should dare to write but 
that Story undertakes that you shall forgive and be your 
very self of old. I don't make the excuse of having little 
to say or tell — you would bear with that. We went to 
London two years ago, then to Paris, thence returned to 
London, and now here we are since last autumn, that is, 
in Tuscany, and we shape our course for Rome this win- 
ter, and England again in the spring, if one dares look so 
far. On the whole we are in a somewhat livelier way than 
when you saw us, — go out now and then, and see a new 
friend from time to time. My wife's health is much im- 
proved — or her strength, at least — and our child (do 
you just remember the little beginning of a creature?) is, 
and always has been quite strong and well, a good gra- 
cious little fellow who makes the home ring with his laugh- 
ter from morn to night. Story informs me you are well, 
you and yours; but you must go over all that ground 
again, and tell us how painting advances, and poetry, and 



196 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

as much about yourself as your beneficence chooses. I 
know I have never once made a fresh American acquain- 
tance that I did not question, the first thing, about you, 
and George Curtis, Willard, and Norton. "There are 
no better hearts on earth," as your and our Emerson 
says. 

Since I saw you, we have known and parted with poor 
Margaret Fuller, so strangely and mournfully, but I 
won't write of it here — and now there is poor Greenough 
gone. Let us hold to what we have the faster. 

You may think what a joy it was to have the Storys 
come over to us on the day after our arrival here. They 
are on the hill-top, — we house on the clefts of the rocks. 
We came in ignorance that they were in Tuscany. Now 
we see them daily, or nearly so, and our weeks go only too 
fleetly by, with them to speed them in this delightful 
place, — for such it is, spite of a clot of Dukes and Kings, 
— kinsmen who are sojourning here also. The beauty is 
more than they can spoil. You were never here, I think. 
Shall you never want to replenish your portfolio with 
fresh Italian studies, such as I remember to have filled it 
when I used to call on you in that old wrecked convent 
turned into the painters' nursery, — your room with that 
ghastly model of a horse? I have been in it since, and 
missed you exceedingly. 

I shall let my wife finish this scrap, — all the limits of 
Story's letter allow, — but do believe, as if I had suffi- 
ciently expressed it, or attempted to express it, my true 
and entire remembrance of you and Mrs. Cranch, your 
kindness and sympathy. Keep all you can of them, my 
dear Cranch, 

for yours ever very faithfully, 

Robert Browning. 



NEW YORK !197 

Mrs. Browning to Mrs. Cranch 

My dear Mrs. Cranch: If ever you forgive us, which is 
possible though improbable on the whole, within the 
bounds of human nature, do tell us of the children. The 
sight of Mrs. Story's reminds me that I must not any 
longer think of them as babies, indeed even my own boy 
might suggest as much. Do you remember the small 
creature with fluent arms and legs? Now he has grown to 
be an intelligence, you are to understand. Blue eyes, light, 
long ringlets and a tendency to run in a way most like 
flying! 

Try to believe that we have never forgotten any of 
you, nor are likely to forget you ever. The truth is, my 
husband is deep in the corruption of neglectful or pro- 
crastinating letter writing, and though I have cried in his 
ears as loud as conscience itself, he put off from one week 
to another, and from one month to another, writing the 
letter due to you, till he covered up his sin in the ashes of 
shame, and made up his mind never to dare to do it. Try 
to forgive him, for the sake of the regard to you and 
yours, under all offences. 

You see we are back again in Italy, after a year and a 
half in Paris and London. Will you come back? Do you 
ever think of it, dream of it, long for it? Or are you 
caught up in the great whirlpool of American life, and 
stunned deaf to the music called Italy? For my part, 
absent or present, the tune of it sings on in my head. I 
liked Paris much, but the love of my Florence would not 
go out. 

The Storys are looking in high force and as pleasant as 
ever. Indeed we grow closer, I think, and have to thank 
their affectionateness and agreeableness for much of our 
enjoyment here. Will you kiss your dear children for my 



198 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

child and me? And will you both remember us with the 
affectionate thoughts we bear you? 

Elizabeth Bakkett Browning. 

To Mrs. Stearns 

Fishkill Landing, September 4, 1853. 

You will be surprised to hear that I have concluded to 
go to Europe with wife and children, about the first of 
October. We propose to spend the winter in Paris, and 
perhaps go to Germany, and perhaps Italy in the spring. 
. . . Paris, I had a mere glimpse of, on my return from 
Italy. There is much to be seen and many advantages 
which an artist must derive from a residence there. Then 
the ease and comfort of living there will be a great thing 
for Lizzie, who is worn out with the cares of housekeeping 
and looking after the children. 

I shall, of course, regret leaving America on many ac- 
counts, but I presume there will be ample compensation 
for all loss. A kind of fate draws us to Europe which it is 
vain to resist, as well as unwise. I only wish there were a 
little more time for preparation, and that it were earlier 
in the season. It is uncertain how long we shall remain 
abroad, that will depend upon circumstances, but cer- 
tainly for a year. 

I have just returned from a few weeks' sojourn at 
Niagara, and have brought home some useful studies 
and sketches. I have not time to tell you how charmed I 
was with the Falls, and with all the surrounding scenery. 
I was there fifteen years ago, for a day and a half, so it 
was all nearly new to me. . . . 

I hope I may see you in New York before we sail; but I 
don't know yet how we shall go, but by steamer prob- 
ably. I want, of course, to go as cheap as possible, con- 
sistently with comfort. Lizzie has the promise of an 



NEW YORK 199 

invaluable nurse to go with us, a woman who offered to 
go herself. 

I shall not have time to write to many of my friends 
before leaving. I cannot yet realize that we are going, 
the plan is such a sudden thing. But I shall not yet say 
good-bye to you. 



CHAPTER XI 

TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 

The Autobiography goes on: — 

In October, 1853, we sailed for Europe from New York 
in the sailing ship Germania. W. H. Huntington x was a 
fellow-passenger. He became intimately acquainted with 
us, and during our long residence in Paris we were often 
together. He was a true friend, a man of sterling charac- 
ter, of a most lovable nature, and great mental original- 
ity. He was for many years a correspondent of the "New 
York Tribune." 

We settled down in Paris, where we remained for 
nearly ten years. We found life very pleasant here, and a 
good many friends and acquaintances. 

Among my artist friends were Story, Babcock, Will- 
iam Tiffany, Kichard Greenough, Edward May, William 

1 William H. Huntington was a quaint character all made up of 
oddities, kindnesses, and good taste in art, which a residence of many 
years in Paris, where he was correspondent of the New York Tribune 
for nearly half a century, accentuated. At least twice a week the year 
round would he come to our domicile with a huge packet of Tribunes. 
His little "at homes" at 8 Rue de Boursault were sought after for 
many years by Americans who visited Paris. He had a collection of 
rare books and pictures which were very well worth seeing. His man- 
ner of entertaining was charming, so simple and individual. Upon 
invitation, Mrs. Cranch would take some teaspoons and teacups in 
her pocket and pour the tea. He would meet friends at the door, say- 
ing all the servants had gone into the country. 

He established a Frenchwoman, Madame Busque, in a little shop 
where American specialties were sold. Baked beans, griddle cakes, 
and pumpkin pies were much sought after by her American clientele. 
An American man or woman coming home, who had not been to his 
teas, had lost something by not meeting this quaint personality in his 
charming rooms. There was one corner of Paris unvisited. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 201 

Dana, Hamilton Wild, Paul Duggan, Emile Du Pont; 
among other friends — all Americans — were Mrs. Ogden 
Haggerty and her two daughters, Mr. and Mrs. Turner 
Sargent, Mr. and Mrs. Frank Shaw, Mrs. Sarah Russell, 
Mr. and Mrs. William B. Greene, Frank Boott, James 
Russell Lowell, Henry James, Sr., and his clever and at- 
tractive family, Thomas G. Appleton, and Peter Porter. 

In the summer of 1855 we had in Paris a great Univer- 
sal Exhibition in an immense building erected for the 
occasion on the Champs Ely sees. The Department of 
Fine Arts contained works from most of the countries of 
Europe, and from the United States. My contribution 
was two pictures of Niagara, which were afterwards pur- 
chased by Mr. Russell Sturgis, of London. England was 
largely represented, and there was ample opportunity to 
compare the English pictures with those of the Continent, 
and especially with the French and Belgian; showing how 
far inferior they were to the latter. 

And here I may as well say that during our stay in 
Paris I exhibited two or three times at the Salon. At one 
exhibition my picture, an "American Sunset," was hung 
on the line, though I knew no one on the Jury of Admit- 
tance. It was purchased by an American gentleman 
residing in Paris. 
I This summer was made memorable by many things. 

My first acquaintance began with James Russell 
Lowell. We were together a good deal, and soon became 
friends. In the latter part of July, as he was going to 
England, he urged my accompanying him. The Story s 
were in London, and for a time I was their guest, and 
afterward Lowell's at his rooms. I saw something of 
London and the environs. 

While in London I saw Mr. and Mrs. Browning again. 
Thackeray I also saw. I had met him at the Century 



202 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Club in New York. One evening at Russell Sturgis's, he 
invited Lowell, Story, and myself to dine with him at the 
Garrick Club. After dinner we adjourned to some rooms 
he called the "Cider-Cellar," which was not a cellar, but 
a quiet, comfortable parlor, somewhere in the neighbor- 
hood, where he ordered cigars and punch. Thackeray 
was then publishing "The Newcomes" in numbers. He 
asked us if we had seen the last number. We said we had 
not. "I should like," he said, "to read you a part of it." 
To which, of course, we eagerly assented. So he called 
the waiter and sent him out with a shilling, to get the last 
number. 

When it arrived, he read to us for at least an hour. It 
was the last part where Colonel Newcome dies. His tones 
were very pathetic, and we were much interested. After 
we had expressed our pleasure, Lowell begged him for the 
number, as a souvenir. He had scarcely finished reading 
when a party of Bohemian fellows, artists and authors, I 
believe, came bounding in, and their loud talk and merri- 
ment grated harshly on the mood in which the reading 
had left us. . . . Tennyson's "Maud" was just out, and I 
remember one very pleasant morning with Story and 
Lowell, passed in reading it aloud. James Russell Lowell 
had just lost his wife and his voice trembled as he read 
"Maud" aloud to us. 

For about two years I was correspondent of the " New 
York Evening Post." 

In the autumn of 1857 we heard the sad news of the 
burning of the old De Windt homestead in Fishkill Land- 
ing. Hardly anything was saved. All our books, manu- 
scripts, letters, and many things of value left in the garret 
for safe-keeping were consumed. Copley's beautiful por- 
trait of Mrs. Colonel Smith, Mrs. De Windt's mother and 
the only daughter of John Adams, was destroyed. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 203 

Mr. Cranch describes the old De Windt home- 
stead in the opening of his fairy story, "Burly- 
bones." 

On one of the most beautiful and fertile farms that 
slopes up from the banks of our noble Hudson River, 
stood an old house in the old Dutch style, — a long, low 
building with steep gables and a piazza running nearly en- 
tirely around it, covered with creepers, roses, and honey- 
suckles. The house was surrounded and almost hid by 
tall, venerable locusts and large horse-chestnuts and a 
few weeping willows. Back of it was a large garden rilled 
with flowers, vegetables, and fruit trees. 

A magnificent double row of locusts, very old, 
formed an entrance to the place. The interlacing 
boughs were so close, and the stateliness of the trees 
so striking, that this was called "The Cathedral." 
"Locust Grove" was the name of the De Windt 
estate. This avenue gave it great distinction; and 
the Hudson River gliding by, and fine mountains on 
either side made a beautiful setting to the pic- 
turesque old house. 

I made several visits of a few weeks at a time to Bar- 
bizon and the Forest of Fontainebleau, where I worked 
steadily at my brush out of doors. And delightful days 
they were, though I had little company besides Nature. 

I also visited Switzerland in the summer of 1857 and 
1858, but did not make very extensive tours in that 
region. I saw the Lake of Geneva and Mount Blanc from 
St. Martens. And on my second visit went to Interlachen, 
where I staid a week to get a clear view of the Jungfrau. 
It was in September. With two companions I walked 
across to Lake Lucerne, up the valley of the Lauterbrun- 



204 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

nen, up the Wengern Alp and the Glacier of Grindelwald, 
making pencil sketches on the road. It was a charming 
tramp. But I had no time nor much inclination to ascend 
any of the slippery places of the Alps. I took such ma- 
terial as I could turn into pictures. I was but a poor 
painter going off to work, and hoping to bring back some- 
thing fresh from Nature upon canvas. I was not bound 
for St. Gothard, or the Rigi, but only the Lake of Geneva 
and Vevay. I was prepared to deny myself. My pro- 
spectus was work, not fun. I had no scale like that of 
my friend Dives. I was like a man invited to hear the 
overture of a great opera or to view the facade of St. 
Peter's fl 

Well, I will hear and see what I can. I will imagine 
how the great men and women sing, or how the wondrous 
golden dome looks to the devotees. 

So here I am en route for the overture to "William 
Tell" and the vestibule of the great church whose aisles 
are the grand, dim, precipitous gorges, whose altars are 
the green glaciers, and whose mountain columns are 
capitalled with snow and domed over with the divine 
frescoes of clouds, sunshine, stars, and moonlight. 

The following are extracts from the Journal: — 

It is six o'clock in the morning. I am leaving the streets 
of Paris behind, Monsieur Chiffonier, and you are so busy 
there looking over that dust-pile of cabbage leaves and 
scraps of paper and ends of cigars, that you don't seem 
aware that I am passing by in a sumptuous voiture de 
place with a big trunk a-top and my passport in my 
pocket and money in my purse: and pretty soon your 
dusty Paris, with all its crowds, from ragpicker to Em- 
peror, who bake and sizzle along the bitumen pavements, 
will be far behind, and the snow-capped Alps in sight. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 205 

And to my surprise they were in sight much sooner 
than I expected. That is, as I was flying along on the 
railroad (Chemin-de-fer de Lyon) nearing Macon, if I 
had not known in which direction to look for my snow- 
capped grandees, and if the atmosphere had not been 
particularly clear, I might have mistaken what I saw, far 
off on the dim horizon, for a bank of luminous cloud. And 
indeed for some time I had my doubts. I prayed in- 
wardly that they might not crumble into air. The sun 
was nearly setting. I watched this rosy, distant vision 
with straining eyes. Only stay, dear Alps, do not fade 
away, don't let my first glimpse of your distant glories 
prove an unsubstantial pageant! I turned to a young 
Frenchwoman in the car, and said, "Voila Mont Blanc!" 
She took it rather stupidly. If I had said, "There is your 
stopping-place," some lonely little station where she 
was to get out, she would have been ten times more 
excited. 

To me the distant, dreamy vision was a delicious 
glimpse of the Delectable Mountains. I could see now, 
they did not melt away. I could trace the solid mountain 
forms. And as they disappeared in the lowering gray, I 
was content to bid them good-night, for I should soon see 
them more nearly. 

The railroad ride was long and hot, and I was glad to 
put up for the night at a cool, quiet inn at Macon. My 
windows opened to the east on the Saone, and I left them 
open. It was a warm night. Early in the morning, — it 
could n't have been more than four o'clock, — I was 
gratified and somewhat surprised to see on the extreme 
horizon for the second time His Majesty the Monarch of 
Mountains. But now he was dark against the red morn- 
ing sky. 
* Before the sun rose he had withdrawn. I have had a 



206 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

third view of his head and shoulders, and a very near 
view, at Geneva. Since that I have lost sight of him. 
He was one of the Cremonas in my overture, in fact he 
led the orchestra, as he should have done. 

On the 16th a railroad took me as far as a place called 
Seyssel on the frontier of Savoy. At a place called Am- 
berieu the mountains commence, and from here all the 
way to Seyssel I and my two car-companions, a bearded, 
silent Frenchman and a social Sister of Charity, were 
rushing from one side of the car to the other, breaking 
our necks to look up at the craggy and savage mountains 
overhead. It was a wild, lonely, uninhabited-looking 
region through which we passed. The villages were few, 
and all looked as if the inhabitants had deserted for fear 
of the toppling crags overhead. 

I went to Geneva, Morge, Lausanne, Vevay, and was 
several days at St. Martens, near Mont Blanc. Here I 
had uninterrupted views of the magnificent snow-peaks, 
of which I made accurate drawings and some attempt at 
the wondrous colors at sunset. . . . 

September 11. Sent off baggage to the Post for Lu- 
cerne, and with two companions, both Americans, set off 
on our foot- journey over the mountains — up Lauter- 
brunnen Valley. Made a sketch of the approach to the 
valley, a very fine scene. Enormous cliffs overhead — 
waterfalls and mountain-streams in abundance. Saw the 
Staubbach, a wonderful fall, a veil or scarf of water 
fringed with spray, falling some eight hundred feet, and 
spilling itself in the air. Heard for the second time the 
Alpine horn and the echoes. Started for the Wengern Alp. 
Luckily a stout boy named Ulrich offered to carry our 
packs all the way up the mountain to the Jungfrau Hotel 
for two francs. It was fortunate we did not attempt to 
carry them ourselves, for the climbing was difficult. We 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 207 

had three hours of it, and a hot afternoon sun. Slept at 
the Jungfrau Hotel, a quiet, clean Bauernhaus. A pretty 
daughter of the host waited on the table. Saw a fine 
avalanche, and heard avalanches thundering in the night. 
Awfully grand was the gigantic Jungfrau opposite, with 
its neighbors the Monch and Eiger, filling one half the 
horizon and looming up in solitary grandeur with their 
eternal snows : the sky perfectly cloudless : and those in- 
accessible heights seemed so near, as if we could almost 
touch them. Far below the Lauterbrunnen Valley lay 
dusky and mysterious. Not a sound to be heard, save 
now and then the thunders of the avalanches from the 
mountains. 

' September 13. Walked over the Scheideck and down to 
Meyringen. The Alpine horn near the Wetterhorn was 
wonderful. The echoes sent back from the steep preci- 
pices were unearthly. Sometimes there came three dis- 
tinct echoes, that kept up a blended harmony, like an 
organ or band of instruments. The boy who blew the 
horn had two small cannon to discharge. He fired off one 
for eight sous. It was like a tremendous clap of thunder. 
All the Alps seemed to reverberate in one long peal. We 
slept at Meyringen, a lovely valley, abounding in water- 
falls. 

September H. A long day's walk to Alpnacht on Lake 
Lucerne. After climbing the Brunig, and descending a 
very steep path, our way lay over a very level country 
with a good carriage-road by the lakes of Lungern and 
Sarnen. At Gyswil we lunched at a pleasant auberge, 
where I saw in the hotel book the name of Calame. . . . 
Sketched on Lake Sarnen. Got to Alpnacht in time for 
the boat to Lucerne. The sunset and clouds were glori- 
ous. ... I think I prefer Lucerne to all the Swiss towns 
I have seen. 



208 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Again, from the Autobiography : — 

The winter of 1858-59 I spent in Rome, alone. I took a 
room with a studio in the Via Sistina and was pretty busy 
through the winter. I saw a good deal of the Storys, and 
found a good many pleasant American acquaintances. 
Hawthorne and his family were there and the Motleys, 
and the Brownings. I enjoyed the winter, except that I 
was separated from my family. I returned to Paris in the 
spring. 

In 1860 I visited Venice and made the most of my time 
by sketching busily, gaining material for a good many 
pictures afterwards painted. It is needless to say how 
fascinated I was with the place. 

Before leaving Paris I called with Lizzie at the studio of 
M. Felix Ziem, an artist celebrated for his seaports and 
especially his Venetian views, which we greatly admired. 
He kindly gave me the address of the person in whose 
house he had rooms in Venice. In this house I secured 
lodgings. It was on the Riva dei Schiavoni, fronting the 
harbor, where I could sketch directly from my win- 
dow. . . . 

An extract from a sad and beautiful letter from 
W. W. Story telling of the loss of his little son, and 
the long, dangerous illness of his daughter. 

Velletri, March, 1854. 
Your two very kind letters came to me two months 
ago, while at the sick-bed of little Edith. And at the sick- 
bed of little Edith I write my answer. What a winter we 
have had — of grief and anxiety ! . . . I pray God that 
you and Lizzie may never know the suffering we have 
had. We returned to Rome in November, and all were 
particularly well and happy. Never had life seemed to 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 209 

open so fair a prospect to us, and we looked forward to 
the future with glad hearts, but we are now crushed and 
maimed forever. . . . When I think of that mound under 
the pyramid of Caius Cestius, my heart is fain to break. 
Everything revives recollections, which are pangs, and I 
cannot enjoy the beauty of it any longer. Were it not for 
the Faith, the blind faith of something hereafter better, I 
should go mad. But if this world were all, it would be 
devil's work, and the utter incompleteness of everything 
here points its sure finger to a better hereafter. What 
service this terrible suffering is to render me, I cannot see, 
but I have faith that all is for the best, somehow, though 
I know not how. 

Dear little Joe was well, gay, full of spirits, scurrying 
around me in play on Monday, and on Wednesday the 
peace of death was on his little face. How serene it 
looked. As I gazed on it, I envied that exquisite repose. 
I did not dare to wish him back. No one can know what 
he was to us. A purer, more spotless soul, I do not believe 
was ever on this earth. I always owned him with trem- 
bling. I always felt that he did not belong to us, for there 
was something strange about him which never belonged 
to Earth's children. Dear little boy ! I know no thought 
ever bubbled up into his mind that was not divine, and 
this earth never brushed the spirit dust from off his soul. 
He used to go with Emelyn to the English cemetery to 
strew flowers over the green grave of little Walter 
Lowell, 1 and one day, returning, he looked up with those 
large, sweet eyes and said: "Mamma when shall you 
bring me here to lie down with little Walter and be an 
angel, for you know you must some day?" Well! Well! 
He at least is spared from what we suffer, and I often 
think of the words of Jeremy Taylor (I think the words 
1 The youngest child of James Russell Lowell. 



210 CHRISTOPHER PE ARSE BRANCH 

are Taylor's), — "He who has lost a child has cast an 
anchor in Heaven." . . . 



To his brother Edward 

Paris, April 30, 1854. 
My dear Brother, — 

... It hardly seems possible that nearly six months 
have passed since we arrived at Paris. Well, I have had 
my ups and downs, my "glees and my glooms." The 
winter has not been altogether couleur de rose, but on the 
whole a happy and pleasant one. Life is a curious mixture 
of gladness and sadness; of sufferings and anxieties, with 
a family of young children, and very little to spend — 
sometimes forced to borrow money — and no orders, and 
little hopes of any. One must be of good stuff to be 
always merry. 

I will now answer some of the questions which you 
would put to me, if you were with me. How do you like 
Paris? I like it much; that is, we find here everything we 
need for comfort and convenience in living, and every- 
thing, with a few exceptions, cheaper than in New York; 
often very much cheaper. Those who talk of the expen- 
siveness of Paris, have spoken from their experience at 
hotels and furnished apartments, as well as a too brief 
acquaintance of the shops, and a too limited knowledge of 
the French language. Foreigners are always imposed 
upon, but when one gets into the way of things, and takes 
some pains to find out the just prices, one is treated 
better. Had we known as much as we do now, during the 
first month we were here, we might have saved a good 
deal of money. After six months' experience we are find- 
ing out the savoir-faire. 

For an artist, Paris is the very place, at least for study; 
that I am convinced of. In the first place, all artist's 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 211 

materials are much cheaper and better than with us. I 
include^ in this everything that an artist needs, from a 
studio down to engravings, colors, and drawing pencils. 
Then he has the Louvre, which he can enter at any time, 
and if he chooses study and copy in. Then he sees all 
around him, as good specimens of contemporaneous art 
as can anywhere be found, to say nothing of architecture, 
gardens, fountains, statues, engravings, lithographs, pho- 
tographs, casts from life and the antique, etc., etc. 

The general effect of Paris, taken through an artist's 
eye, and into an artist's brain, is to educate that eye and 
brain, as our American life cannot. I don't mean that an 
artist, or anyone else who is American, should pass his 
days here. But a year or two of study here, must be 
vastly beneficial to a man whose sphere is to be art, and 
whose aim is improvement. 

W. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

London, July 19, 1855. 

. . . J. R. L. writes that you and he went to see Bee- 
thoven. Are the bronzes finished? How I wish he and 
you and I could have been there together; but James has 
just written to me saying that he will come over to old, 
smoky London, and by George, will go to the Tabard Inn 
and the Mermaid Tavern. Why don't you come over too? 
Here is Browning just about to publish, and Lytton en- 
joying his laurels. The laurel is a poison plant. And we 
dined together a couple of days ago at John Forster's with 
Boxall and Peter Cunningham, and had a jovial time up 
to twelve of the clock. 

The streets look dark and smoky, after Paris, and it 
seems as if the houses had been moved down of their tops, 
they are so low and uncorniced. The parks are grand 
lungs. The people are a funny, canty set of shaven, pious 



212 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

people, but honest and conscientious. The women are 
far prettier than I had remembered them, perhaps from 
contrast with the Parisians. All of them are fresh in 
color and blooming. A good many fine beasts and a band 
at the Theological Gardens, as Edie used to call them. . . . 
Lord Palmerston savage and in the impotence of age, 
Dizzy shooting Parthian arrows that sting, and Sir Ed- 
ward Lytton making elaborate speeches after his ground 
has been knocked from under him, are really worth see- 
ing. It is very interesting and very admirably arranged. 
I saw your "Nahant" at Sturgis's the other day. It 
looked very well and they are delighted with it. The 
rocks, as I said, looked really rocky. . . . We eat and 
drink with numbers of people, despite the lateness of the 
season. 

From a letter describing the writer's first sight of 
London, whither his friend, James Russell Lowell, 
had taken him: — 

To Mrs. Cranch 

London, July 26, 1855. 

. . . We arrived yesterday afternoon about half-past 
four. We came by the Thames and not by Folkestone, as 

I expected London, coming up the Terns, looks almost 

exactly as I expected, and so has everything else that I 
have seen, except that the houses are blacker and the air 
smokier than I imagined. 

We came directly to Bulstrode Street, where we found 
a cordial welcome from the Story s. It is a very quiet part 
of the city, looking very like Boston, except the aforesaid 
blackness of the houses. I have a little room of Story's on 
the fourth floor, which they insisted on my occupying, 
and on my being their guest. I remonstrated, but in vain. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 21S 

About eight o'clock we all went to dine at Russell Stur- 
gis's. Everything was in grand style. We were received 
in the entry (you must know the houses are all arranged 
precisely like American houses), by five or six magnificent 
serving-men in livery. Then we were ushered up a great 
carpeted stairway into the large drawing-room, where a 
dozen other guests were assembled. Mr. and Mrs. Sturgis 
were very agreeable and looked very handsome. No less 
than sixteen persons sat down to dinner, and were served, 
course after course, by the resplendent servants, headed 
by the most gentlemanly of black-coated and white- 
chokered butlers. Beside Mrs. Sturgis there were three 
other ladies. All seemed to be English except our 
party 

This morning after breakfast, Greenough, the sculptor, 
came in, much to the surprise of the Story s and of Lowell. 
He is going soon to Paris where he intends residing, for a 
time at least. . . . The Storys are laying out a programme 
of places to be visited — even Stonehenge and Stratford 
are talked of . . . . 

James Russell Lowell to Mr. Cranch 

No. 1 BULSTRODE St., 

Tuesday. (August, 1855.) 
Here is a letter which I doubt would not have pro- 
longed your furlough and my pleasure. You were quite 
right to go — otherwise I should have begged you to stay 
longer. It is good to have a conscience, but not to let it 
tie so many knots in one's face. I am very glad I have 
had a chance of knowing you a little, and am a little 
vexed that you should have thought it necessary to give 
me the little sketch, though, Trusty Christopher, I value 
it highly. Browning was sorry not to see you last evening, 
and expressed the value he set upon you. Said I, "He is 



£14 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

an oyster — you have to open him with a knife — but 
then there is not only meat in him but a pearl also." Said 
Browning, "Yes, quite true — and he has a fine beard 
too," which I thought good. 

I am astounded to find myself writing to you — but 
God bless you! Good-bye. 

Affectionately yours, 
Jacopo Barbarossa. 

To Mrs. Stearns 

Paris, August 10, 1855. 

. . . Since I left America, life has gone on with me 
pretty evenly, with its usual ups and downs. As to my 
success, I get on about as usual, neither better nor worse. 
I scratch along, sometimes very miserable and sometimes 
very merry. Somehow I find fewer sympathizing souls 
than I used to. But I find them here and there. William 
Story has been a good, constant and warm-hearted friend, 
and congenial to all my tastes. And lately I have become 
quite intimate with James Russell Lowell, to whom I 
have formed a strong attachment. I went over to Eng- 
land the other day with him and had two weeks there 
which I enjoyed very much. On my return I found a son * 
born into my family; a fine boy, whose appearance on 
this planet I did not look for within a week or two to 
come. This young family makes me feel sometimes very 
old. If I allowed myself to think of my responsibilities as 
a father, I should be quite overburdened with anxious 
thought. The truth is, I try not to think of the future, 
but let the present flow into what moulds I can. That is, 
when it can be moulded. . . . 

In London I saw Browning several times, and Thack- 
eray, with whom I dined, with Story and Lowell, at the 
1 Quincy Adams Cranch. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 215 

Garrick Club. . . . Browning is about publishing a new 
volume — or rather two volumes — of poems. I look 
for them very eagerly. He is, in my opinion, the great 
poet of the day. I don't know any one teeming with such 
rich life and thought as Browning. 

Tennyson has a new volume out, called "Maud." It 
contains beautiful things. 

As for my humble self, — not that I put myself beside 
these high singers, — I write scarcely anything. But I 
live in hopes of doing something worth publishing some 
day. If I publish, I shall make a severe selection of my 
poems probably, for the older I grow, the more rigorous a 
critic I become. 

Last winter I wrote a child's story called "The Last of 
the Huggermuggers," about a good giant, which, if it is 
ever published, will, I think, amuse you and your chil- 
dren. I illustrated it, and drew the designs on wood for 
the engraver. It is now in the hands of G. W. Curtis, who 
is trying to get a publisher for it. I should like you to see 
it. It is amusing, with some pathos at the end. Poor 
Georgie always cried at the last part of it. . . . 

Mr. Cranch had the sorrow of losing his father at 
this time. He was deeply grieved to learn of the 
death of Judge Cranch, at Washington, September 
1, 1855. 

James Russell Lowell to Mr. Cranch 

Dresden, October 4, 1855. 
It was a very great pleasure to receive a letter from you 
and especially so cordial a one. I should have written 
sooner, but I have hitherto been taken up altogether with 
doing nothing, that is, either my niece or ne'phew wanted 
all the time I did not give to my sister. They are all gone 



216 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

to Italy now, and I am left here by myself to vanquish 
those hundred-headed hydras — German sentences. It 
is a death grapple, and I don't know yet which will win. 
It is very droll to be a schoolboy again, and of the lowest 
form too. I think of getting a jacket and satchel — in 
moments of temporary enthusiasm I dream of tops and 
balls and marbles. My own private opinion is that the 
German was the Ursprache or original tongue, and that 
the confusion of Babel (for which Gott sei Dank ! since to 
that I owe my title of Professor) arose from the fact that 
several right-minded and independent Patriarchs, having 
reached middle life — say one hundred and fifty years, 
and without being able to express themselves with any 
tolerable facility, and having children enough, with their 
mammas, to make a strong diversion, resolved not to sub- 
mit any longer, and so each set up a language of his own, 
as a man sets up a coach when he can afford it instead of 
going any longer in the omnibus, and drove off, each his 
own way, in his private vehicle of thought. That sentence 
is almost as long and almost as intricate as that of a Ger- 
man philosopher, but perhaps you can fish out the idea. I 
am reading the "iEsthetische Forschungen " of Adolf 
Zeising, — a good book, by the way, — and I go to work 
on a paragraph as folks do in those French eating-houses 
where one pays a sou for a dive in the caldron. The dic- 
tionary is my forchettone and I plunge and replunge my 
weapon at a venture, sometimes spearing nothing, and 
sometimes getting a waterlogged potato, and sometimes, 
also, a bit of truly nourishing meat. 

I am very well off here, indeed, in a very kind family 
and with a uomo distinto, as they say in Italy, that is, a 
very distinct man — learned, simple, and queer. It is 
delightful to see him and his wife together after a mar- 
riage of thirty-six years, — she so proud of him and call- 




JUDGE WILLIAM CRANCH 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 217 

ing him her liebste August, as if they were betrothed 
lovers still, and he whimsically and abstractedly affec- 
tionate like a great, tender-hearted bear who has ac- 
quired a mechanical habit of endearing manners. I have 
a pleasant room on the ground floor qui donne sur un 
petit jardin by a large glass door. I think I shall stay here 
till March. I like Dresden well enough. There are very 
pleasant walks, the theatre is excellent, and the gallery a 
fine one. The famous Correggios as usual disappointed 
me, except the Magdalen which is a charming little pic- 
ture. The others are confusion and bosh. The "Tribute 
Money" of Titian is wonderful — and — what I was not 
prepared for, the head of Christ is the noblest by far I 
have ever seen, — tender with a kind of foreboding sor- 
row, and strong at the same time with subdued self- 
reliance. In the great Madonna, the expression of the 
mother and the child is truly divine — otherwise, the 
picture is meagre in color, and the secondary figures are 
comparatively poor, merely subserving the pyramidal 
design of the picture and the distribution of color and not 
to be looked at more than as a frame of a concordant 
shape would be. There is also the finest Claude I have 
ever seen, and a truly beautiful Madonna of Holbein. 
The Gallery is strong also in the Dutch school — a set of 
fellows who had admirable powers of expression with 
nothing to express. 

One of my pleasantest experiences has been a visit to 
old Retzsch who showed us his portfolio with the delight 
of a child and quite as if it were the work of somebody 
else. There were some charming things in it, and it was 
very sweet to me that I could press the hand that had 
given me so much delight when I was younger and hap- 
pier. R. has quite lost his mind, but there is nothing pain- 
ful in his condition which is rather childlike than childish. 



218 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

The little landscape you gave me stands opposite as I 
write on the top of my writing table and looks as brilliant 
as ever. I like to see it and to be reminded of you and of 
our London days together. I shall see you again in the 
spring, I hope, on my return from Spain. I do nothing 
but study German and Spanish, and have to use French 
as my dragoman, so that English will before long be a 
strange tongue to me. . . . 

W. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

Boston, December 24, 1855. 
A little work was published here on Saturday by Phil- 
lips and Sampson entitled "The Last of the Hugger- 
muggers," of which there were nine hundred copies sold 
at five o'clock of the afternoon of the same day. The 
newspapers speak highly of this latest literary production 
and it seems to be quite a hit. P. & S. say that it is to sell 
very well and that, were the holidays a little further off, 
they would easily have sold ten thousand. Critics in the 
public prints speak of the elegant manner in which the 
book is got up, and I found on going to the shop to pro- 
cure a copy that they did not deceive the world. A more 
beautifully "got up" book has not issued from the press. 
The illustrations are very well cut, and the letter press is 
beautiful. A group of little children "might have been 
seen " (G. P. R. James) last night gathered around it and 
wrapped up in the prof oundest interest — and by this 
time I have no doubt that, all over the city, groups may be 
seen in similar attitudes — and that on Tuesday night it 
will hang from Christmas Trees and lie everywhere about 
on tables done up in blank paper tied with a blue or red 
cord, and bearing the superscription of some little child 
with the words "a merry Christmas" underscored. 
x . . . We have had charming weather thus far, and al- 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 219 

though we are all parched up and absolutely kiln-dried 
with the furnaces which abound, we get along well enough 
— when we can get an ounce of air to breathe. No snow 
to speak of as yet. Thackeray has been delivering his 
lectures, which are easy, light, genial pictures of manners 
and men in the reign of the Georges. But the public don't 
find them sad and hard and heavy enough. If a light easy 
curricle comes to the door of the American mind to take 
it on an airing and give it a glimpse at the landscape and 
a breath of fresh air, the American mind snuffs up its nose 
and considers itself insulted. It says, Why not cart me in 
a load of the stones which are on your landscape or of coals 
which are underground, or of the forest after it is cut 
down and well sawed, and dump it at my door; that 
would be worth something. So although there are who 
like these lectures of Thackeray, because they are so 
genial and pleasant and satiric, — there is sour enough to 
make good punch, — Ticknorville aghast somewhat at 
the lightness says, "Does Thackeray think it worth 
while to come over the ocean to talk such light talk to us? 
What different lectures were those of Sir Charles Lyell on 
Geology! He gave us information of value." Yes, dearest 
Cranchibus, it is information of value we seek; we scorn 
to be pleased. However, go not away with the idea that 
Thackeray has not succeeded. He has filled his pockets, 
for people had to go in order to criticise. . . . 

You would laugh or weep, as the case might be, to be- 
hold me here, in the little back room of Little & Brown, 
hard at work all day, and up to my ears in the law. Think 
of this — within the last nine months I have written some 
four hundred printed pages of law to be added to the 
fourth edition of my book on "Contracts." Did you say 
"Pegasus im poche" — for I thought I heard you whis- 
per, "Law flourishes, but art is dead." Are the vines 



220 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

dying all over the world? If Pegasus kicks up in harness, 
and free for a moment in letters, cuts Didos, — as pious 
iEneas, or any ass may, — forgive him. He has to go 
back to the plough, and have a hard pull of it too. The 
subject upon which I enter to-day is "Legal tender" 
which I shall find sufficiently tough, doubtless. 

No poetry for me yet, but I have vague ideas of pub- 
lishing a book of verses yet; ma che saf Life is so gritty 
and the wheels jar and squeak so here, that there is little 
music in them. Speaking of music, there is good music 
here in the way of quartette and orchestra, and with al- 
lowances all goes well; only there is the greatest bigotry 
in respect of the German school, and there are two cliques 
— one Italian and one German, who fight all day long, 
and one American headed by Fry and Bristow who pitch 
generally into every one and strike out right and left, 
every fight being a free fight. Oh, little Peddlington, how 
charming are thy ways! 

W. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

Boston, April 18, 1856. 

I have only a minute and a half to write to you, but I 
have a matter of moment to communicate and will not 
let the steamer go without it. I have promised on your 
behalf to Phillips, Sampson & Co. that you will write 
them another story with illustrations of about the length 
of " Huggermugger," and send it to them in July. So 
bestir your stumps. 

Now I am going to advise you. Take it kindly, for it is 
so meant. Your "Huggermugger" was a considerable 
success in certain quarters, but your friends did not think 
it up to your mark. We all know that you can do much 
better if you choose to put your energies to work; and 
now you must do so. You must invent a new story, and 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 221 

tell it in a livelier and sharper way. Make the sentences 
tingle. Don't get lazy over it, and think it will do itself. 
Brace up your faculties, and think you touch gold thereby. 
Here is a chance and a field for you. "Take the instant 
way" and don't let the golden apple slip through your 
hands. I pray you on my knees, oh! Cranch, wake up to 
this and do it well. Put as much fun as possible into it. 
TSegay ! You have got humor and we know it. Now dig it 
up and send it over to us in lumps. Be lively at least in 
your story, and set about it to-morrow. Don't begin till 
you have settled all your plot in your mind; and if you 
can, let it hold a double story, an internal one and an 
external one, as Andersen's do, so that the wiseacres shall 
like it as well as the children. Read "The Little Tin 
Soldier" of Andersen's, "The Ugly Duckling," "The 
Emperor's New Clothes." You can do this and you must 
Your " Huggermugger " is a little too lachrymose and it 
is n't new enough. Still, it has had success. . . . Now, 
having made an entering wedge, split open the log. You 
see the thing is worth while. Had the book been given to 
Phillips, Sampson & Co. six weeks earlier, all the edition 
would have been sold at once during the holidays. So 
you must be beforehand with this new work, and the pub- 
lishers must have it by the end of July, certainly. You 
must make the illustrations, and be sure to draw them 
carefully. There is my advice. I have only your good at 
heart. You have made your pedestal — now put your 
statue -on it. 

I shall probably see you in the latter part of June. We 
have taken our passages for the 18th to Liverpool by the 
Arabia. But your work must be done, or nearly done 
then. Now don't delay. 

Your Fontainebleau picture, which Shaw has, was 
liked very much by Kensett and Tom Appleton. They 



222 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

think you have made a great push ahead. Study, you 
rascal, and do yourself justice! 

To his brother Edward 

Paris, September 14, 1856. 

I was just thinking of writing to you when your letter 
came. You have n't written me very often, nor I you. 
But I had a dream the other night, which gave me a jog, 
and I will tell it to you. It was so vivid that I got up in 
the night and wrote it down; not that there's anything 
in it to tell, but it was so beautiful in the dreaming, that I 
determined to pin it down, like a butterfly, and send it to 
you. We were playing a duet on our flutes. The tune was 
as distinct as if I heard it, every note. It was our old air, 
the "Yellow-Haired Laddie." Our flutes were in splendid 
order, and we played the tune over and over, as if practis- 
ing it, with innumerable embellishments, trills, and ca- 
dences, keeping exactly together even in the very length 
and smoothness of the trills; sometimes you, sometimes I, 
taking the second. I thought that we both felt consider- 
able satisfaction in our performance. We talked of the 
Boehm flute, but preferred our own old-fashioned ones. 
I was just on the point of proposing that we should pub- 
lish a book of our tunes with our own arrangements, when 
I woke, with the music vibrating in my ear. I lay awake 
some time thinking it over. Then I said to myself, I must 
write to Edward and send him my dream. Has n't it too 
a spiritual significance? Though time and distance have 
parted us for years, are we not always brothers as we have 
ever been? How seldom we write to each other now! and 
yet was there ever from boyhood up a cold or unkind 
word between us! and did not our souls unite and har- 
monize as perfectly as our flutes did? 

. . . Last June I sent over another story, a continuation 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 223 

of the "Huggermuggers," which is much better in sub- 
ject, style, and in the designs. Phillips & Sampson are 
much delighted with it, and say no expense will be spared 
to make it the most splendid book ever published in 
Boston. This is pleasant and encouraging. . . . 

The following are extracts from the Journal. 

Barbizon, October 2,5, 1856. 

Barbizon is a little village situated on the verge of the 
Forest of Fontainebleau. It consists of one single street, 
about half a mile long, on the right and left of which are 
little one or two story, stone houses, inhabited chiefly by 
peasants. Some of them are picturesque, the straw being 
covered with rich green moss. They are of the rudest 
construction, and mostly old, and the court yards in front 
of them are beautifully ornamented with dunghills, straw, 
wood piles, carts, barrows, and other farming apparatus. 
Where the gravel walk should be conducting from the 
outer gate to the cottage, is usually a domestic lake, or 
puddle, through which you are expected to walk, as the 
geese do, to the door, if you have anything to say to the 
occupant, unless you prefer the soft carpeting of straw 
and manure on either side, where the chickens, turkeys, 
and all manner of poultry pick and scratch for a living. 
One or two little flower gardens I have seen and some 
attempt at neatness and ornament, for there are two or 
three artists of some reputation who live in Barbizon; but 
I think these innovators on dirt, disorder, and ignorance 
must be looked upon as the aristocrats of the village. 

Barbizon has been for some time the resort of artists, 
who come down here to study and paint in the magnifi- 
cent Forest of Fontainebleau. There are two hotels or 
taverns in the place: Gauve's and Vannier's. The former 
seems to be the most popular at present with the brothers 



224 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

of the brush. Formerly Vannier's had the preference, and 
the salle-a-manger is handsomely adorned with paintings 
on the walls by various artists who have been guests 
there. I cannot say anything about Gauve's tavern, as I 
have never stayed there. 

Of my life here, I shall give a sketch. I arrive after 
sundown, a chilly October evening. I am welcomed by 
Madame Vannier, a good-looking young peasant woman 
dressed in the costume of the country, the first peculiarity 
of which, though it is a costume, common I believe, to 
all the country towns around Paris, is a handkerchief 
wrapped all around the head and entirely concealing the 
hair. Madame Vannier would be better looking still if 
her hair could be seen. But it seems as if all the country 
women, and even the little girls, are forbidden to show 
their hair — as if it were something to be ashamed of. 

I dine very simply, smoke my pipe or cigar, and read a 
little over a few reluctant brands in the deep fire-place of 
the salle-a-manger and retire at 9 o'clock, the fashionable 
hour here for so doing. But as I am going to journalize I 
must begin with the day. I rise early then and breakfast 
on cafe-au-lait, toast and butter. Then I get my painting 
box in order, and strap it over my back; shoulder my 
bundle composed of painting umbrella and pique, stool 
and easel, and receive from Madame Vannier my pochon 
— a sack containing my lunch or second breakfast, which 
I hang on my shoulder. Thus accoutred I tramp to the 
fields. Arriving at the spot chosen for my day's or morn- 
ing's work, I unpack umbrella, easel, stool, and pochon 
and set to work. At 12 or 1, 1 lunch. My second break- 
fast consists of a hunch of dry bread, a piece of meat, a 
scrap of cheese or sausage, salt, a pear, and a half bottle 
of sour wine. But what a glorious appetite one has work- 
ing out of doors! The plainest fare has a relish unknown 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 225 

to the dweller at home. After lunch a cigar or pipe, and 
then work again, or else roam about in search of subjects, 
or to study the trees and rocks, till near sundown, when I 
return to my inn. 

But now comes the prosaic, and by no means enliven- 
ing, part of the day. At present I happen to be alone 
here. So I have to fall upon my own resources, to lighten 
the slow dull hours till bed time. There is a considerable 
difference between life out of doors, and life in doors here. 
I come back to a cold room; a cold salle-a-manger, with 
cold brick floors, and dinner not ready. About six it 
comes on table. A huge loaf of dry bread, a bottle of sour 
wine, pewter spoons and forks. Then first, soup — poor 
enough — often a soupe maigre, or a soupe a Voseille, with 
lots of bread soaked in it; then boiled meat; then a roast, 
or a cutlet, some vegetable — either potatoes or cauli- 
flower, and I remember twice having one artichoke. We 
are put on allowance — always enough to be sure, but 
never anything left over. For dessert always one bunch 
of grapes. Once, when there were four of us, we had each 
four bad walnuts apiece. O ! I forgot the salad ! We have 
that, and Chevon always dresses it, whether we want it 
or not, for he said, otherwise it would appear again, the 
same salad, to-morrow. After dinner comes the luxury of 
a fire to warm our shivering limbs. But what a fire! We 
always had to ask for it, and when it came, it was always 
two or three cat-sticks or twigs, and one chunk of as- 
bestos; and the evening was divided between our pipes, 
and punching and blowing this unwilling and sulking fire. 
When the cat-sticks burned out, all was over with it. 
Never did I see such wood ! It must have been artificially 
prepared and warranted not to ignite. Over and over the 
chunk was turned, like an uneasy sleeper, on its bed of 
ashes and dull coals; but no flame could be got out of it. 



226 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Then the tallow candles gave us some occupation, as they 
required to be snuffed every five minutes. And so, with 
punching the asbestos chunk, and drinking the remainder 
of our sour wine, and lighting fresh pipes, the long evening 
wore away. 

Now, being alone, it is longer than ever. The bed- 
chamber is as cold and cheerless as below stairs; brick 
floor, and not a rag of a carpet or rug to stand on, before 
getting into bed. No furniture but a chair and a table. 
Cold, coarse linen sheets; sometimes dampish — but I 
blew up Madame about that — no woollen blankets, and 
the bed so short that I have to lie diagonally and dream 
transversely. In the morning I wash myself in a basin of 
the size of a breakfast plate, and I wipe myself on a cot- 
ton towel the size of a napkin, and tie my cravat at a 
glass six inches by three and one half, an aggravating 
glass too, which distorts my face horribly, and makes me 
look like four or five ugly men caricatured. 

The country people here seem to be of the roughest 
sort: sordid, close, ignorant, superstitious, coarse, loud- 
tongued, unmusical and altogether of the earth earthy. 
When they converse, they scream at each other, like 
geese. The talk of the men is like the barking of dogs. 
That of the women like the screaming of peacocks, and 
such lungs ! Madame Vannier is one of the most refined 
of them, I dare say. But Madame is ajeune avare, thinks 
of nothing but francs and sous, and how to save and 
scrimp. Two tallow candles for one person would horrify 
her; more than three cat-sticks and one asbestos, or gutta 
percha chunk on the fire, would greatly astound her. 
The other day she begged me to give notice the day before 
I went away, because otherwise the extra meat that was 
provided was wasted. 

. . . Friday evening. The last day of October. I am 





tomx 








TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 227 

still here, working hard all day in the Forest and spending 
my evenings alone. I am getting so that I cannot speak a 
sentence in French straight. I have forgotten how my 
own voice sounds. Moreover, I was so foolish as to bring 
hardly any books. I can't write. The room is too cold, 
and my wits grow torpid for want of stimulus. I told 
Madame Vannier, this evening, that I thought I should 
leave to-morrow. She said she had bought a quantity of 
meat, and that I must stay to eat it, and not go till Mon- 
day. . . . The weather has been splendid : cold and frosty 
in the mornings, but under the shelter of the rocks I can 
work comfortably. The color of the trees is at its finest; 
not equal, of course, to our American October, but fine 
for Europe. My spot for studies is where I have been 
painting, on the rocky side of the Pave or Grande Route, 
next the open space where the oaks are. Here you have a 
specimen of everything for which the Forest is charac- 
teristic. Fine oaks, beeches, and birches. Rocks covered 
with moss and lichens, interspersed with trees, and piled 
up on the hillside in wild and savage grandeur. And a 
pleasant, sheltered spot it is these cold days. Then it is 
near the great road where travellers and artists frequently 
pass, which prevents it from being too lonely. And the 
distance is about a pleasant walk from Barbizon. The 
trees are full of red squirrels; it is a pleasant sight to see 
them passing up and down the trunks, and from the 
boughs of one tree to another. Over the woods of the Bas 
Breau, on the other side the road, the crows scream them- 
selves hoarse, and at night the owls hoot dismally. 

This reminds me of the night of the eclipse a few weeks 
ago, when I heard three owls, as I walked through the 
Forest with some artists. It was a splendid moonlight 
when we started. None of us knew of the eclipse. Very 
soon I discovered that a piece of her ladyship was over- 



228 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

shadowed by the earth. We were on our way through the 
Gorge d'Apremont. As we descended the valley, a fog 
lay below, with precisely the appearance of a lake. We 
walked down to the Dormoir, and around through the 
woods to the Pave. How solemn it was in the Forest! In 
some places almost pitch dark, and the faint eclipse light 
falling here and there in dim white patches — unearthly 
and mysterious. Beethoven's moonlight sonata describes 
it better than anything I can write. We had a long walk 
of it and returned late to Barbizon. 

I wonder if Madame Vannier's meat will spoil, if I 
leave to-morrow. 

In his usual unselfish way, Mr. Curtis writes a 
long letter regarding Mr. Cranch's business affairs, 
in which the writer was untiringly helpful, before 
announcing the most important of personal news. , 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

Staten Island, December 28, 1856. 

... For the "Pegasus" I shall have difficulty in finding 
a publisher. The Boston men decline it, and the New 
Yorkers eschew poetry. My advice is to let it lie, and to 
write Christmas stories. By and by there will be half a 
dozen, — a set, each helping all, and all each. Your name 
thus becomes associated with the holidays. Children will 
think of Santa Claus and Cranch as brothers. If they see 
you they will fancy they see him. The two stories you 
have published have been a decided success. My criti- 
cism would be that there must be a little more definite 
result. Children require the pot of peace in which the 
hero and the heroine are to live and die happily. 1 

And of all things, use me. Let me contract and do the 
work. One man on the spot is worth twenty in Paris. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 229 

And so, put another Christmas story on the stocks and 
go to work of evenings upon your acquaintance with 
Couture and the rest. 1 And if you don't know them, go 
and be introduced and see; for the point is to have the 
account a personal experience. 

. . . Your last letter, November 10, came into my hands 
upon my wedding day, and even as I stood robed and 
ready for the happiness that was waiting. There had 
been a chilly storm all the day before and night, but 
about nine in the morning of the 26th of November, 
June came back again, — the windows and doors were 
open. There might have been roses upon the lawn, as 
there were in the cheeks of my bride, and in the softest 
summer sunshine and among a few of our nearest and 
dearest, your letter in my pocket all the time, to represent 
you and Lizzie, — we were married. Perhaps there was 
never a wedding with so little cloud, and if I can blow it 
off, there will never be any more in the married life than 
there was in the marrying. 

Mr. Cranch to his sister, Mrs. Eliot 

Paris, November 12, 1857. 
I can't let slip so good an opportunity of writing to you, 
if only a line. Miss C. leaves in a few days, and as she has 
seen us all, she will be able to tell you of our welfare. I 
hope your health does not suffer, nor the spirits you used 
to enjoy in the old times, when we were together. And 
how is William's health, and have you suffered pecunia- 
rily by the Crise, which is upsetting everybody's pot and 
kettle in Christendom? That's the absorbing topic now, 
here, as well as in America. A friend of mine writes from 
New York in the Oriental style that the end of the world 

1 Mr. Curtis had begged his friend to write a letter about the 
studios and the artists of Paris for Putnam's Magazine. I 



230 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

is at hand. Do you remember the old story of the "Rope 
that began to hang the Butcher, and the Butcher that 
began to kill the Ox?" etc. Well, that is the play that 
seems to be going on at present, only on a tremendously 
large stage. We are somewhere about at the beginning of 
the story, I think. "Water, water, quench fire, fire won't 
burn stick, stick won't beat dog," but we all hope that in 
the end the pig will go, proverbially obstinate as the ani- 
mal may be. These are the days foretold by that ancient 
myth, that it might be fulfilled, which was spoken by 
Mother Goose and the other prophets. "There was an 
old woman who was sweeping her house one day and 
found a silver penny," etc. 

But seriously, it is dreadful to think of, especially for 
the poor laborers and mechanics. Heaven only knows 
what the end is to be. As for ourselves, we have had 
nothing to lose. We have had no banker these three 
years, and could n't fail. "He that is down, need fear no 
fall." At our most prosperous times, we never see ahead 
more than a few months; so we have been comparatively 
easy in this universal crash. But what the future is to be 
is always an uncertainty with me. The artist must suffer, 
because art is a luxury, and the day of luxuries is over. 
Still I hope for better times. 

I don't know what we should have done, had I not been 
so fortunate this summer and fall, as to sell about $600 
worth of pictures; principally to some Chicago people. I 
was enabled to make a flying trip to Switzerland for the 
first time, and have painted several Swiss pictures. . . . 
Some day we shall all come back to America, but not 
yet. It costs too much to live in New York. Meanwhile, 
my dear sister, remember always your affectionate 
brother. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 231 

TV. W. Story to Mr. Cranch 

Rome, February 6, 1858. 

Your very pleasant letterlet reached me a few days ago 
and was read in full conclave, Wild present, with the 
entire satisfaction of the company. You see that I am 
good and answer immediately, so as to show you a good 
example, and by way of gratifying a most Christian 
feeling of heaping coals of fire, etc. 

I saw by the outside cover of the "Atlantic Monthly" 
that "Kobboltozo" has at last appeared, and I hope that 
it will "put money in your purse/' The designs, which 
were all I ever saw, were very admirable, and if they 
have been done justice to, your book cannot fail to suc- 
ceed. 

What are you at now of new? Burrow and dig out of 
that brain of yours something else or "never more be 
officer of mine." You see already by my two quotations 
that Othello is in my head, and how should it be other- 
wise since hearing Salvini the other night perform the 
Moor so as to leave nothing to be asked. His impersona- 
tion is magnificent, and if Salvini goes to Paris again, as 
he probably will, do not miss the opportunity of hearing 
him. You of course being in Paris will pay Parisian 
prices for that pleasure; but here we can listen to him any 
night for two pauls, and we have a box every fourth night 
of the whole season for eighteen dollars. So we all go. . . . 

Here we have had a wonderful season — cold, but con- 
stant in sunniness. The day before yesterday, however, 
the pot cracked, and for forty-eight hours the rain has 
rivered the streets. Such a carnival as there has been for 
these two days. Mud and confetti in equal doses with 
masses of wet flowers to fling in the faces of friends. What 
inimitable good humor there is in the Corso, despite the 
rain! The black eyes laugh, and the merry voices ring 



232 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

from the contadini, drenched to the skin though they are, 
and their six months' savings lost in their spoiled cos- 
tumes. Ma pazienza! . . . 

i Hatty Hosmer is here, — and by the way, I nearly for- 
got my promise to her. She came to my studio the other 
day really exercised in mind upon a costume and head of 
Zenobia of whom she is intending to make a statue. I 
said, "Write to Paris — Bibliotheque Imperiale — fine 
head and costume." "No friend," she said. I responded, 
"Cranch is an active, tremendously energetic fellow. 
Write to him and ask him to go to the Bibliotheque and 
get a sketch of costume and head for you." "Don't know 
him well enough," she said. "I do, and I will write and 
ask him." "Do," she said, "and it will be sure to be done 
if he is as energetic as you say." 

There is a job for you. Don't swear, but expend a sou 
in tracing paper, go to the Bibliotheque, trace a head and 
dress of Zenobia if you can find one, and send it to me. 
That's a good fellow. Any information on Zenobia grate- 
fully received by H. H. . . . 

Remember me warmly to Greenough — he ought to be 
here. Rome is really the only place to live in. One only 
stays in Paris. 

Mr. Cranch to his wife 

Fontainebleau, May, 1858. 
In spite of the rain I have worked hard every day, and 
have finished two pictures. The first, the Charlemagne 
Oak, or what remains of it; the other, ditto, in a clump 
with two others. They are as good, perhaps better, than 
any three studies I have made. While painting at the 
latter, yesterday afternoon, there came a fayre Ladye 
pacing up the valley on a palfrey, who looked at the 
painting, priced it, and ordered it — that is spoke for it. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 233 

And who do you suppose it was? Mrs. H., who is staying 
at the hotel where I am. . . . 

There is material here for months and months, and I 
wish I could afford to stay. . . . Every moment is pre- 
cious. We work often till 7 o'clock. If Mrs. H. pays me 
for the study, I may stay longer, except that I have n't 
clothes enough, for I brought my old things as if I were 
going to rough Barbizon; here one must go more decent 
and respectable. I should like to have painted some open 
scenes; spring fields and distances, and may yet, but 
there is nothing like the Forest. One could paint here 
forever and always find something new. It is popular 
too; not a day passes that visitors do not come, searching 
out the noted trees and rocks, as they would chef d'ceuvres 
in a gallery. 

Lucerne, September 15, 1858. 
. . . When I last wrote from Interlachen, it was raining, 
and everything was at a standstill. Well, it rained three 
dreary days, then cleared up. The first clear day, though 
it was not quite clear, I went to the top of a mountain and 
made an oil sketch of the Jungfrau. The next day, Fri- 
day, went up the Lake of Brienz and did the Falls of the 
Giessbach, but found them not good enough to sketch. 
Saturday started on our pedestrian journey, up the valley 
of the Lauterbrunnen — made one sketch of a lovely 
scene, which I shall paint, saw the famous Staubbach 
Fall, then up the Wengern Alps, where we slept. Sunday 
walked to Grindelwald and saw the Glacier; Monday to 
Meyringen where we slept. Tuesday (yesterday), down 
the Brunig to Alpnach, and steamboat to Lucerne. All 
this was on foot, a journey to be remembered all my life. 
I can't begin to give you the least idea of this wonderful 
scenery. It has far surpassed all my anticipations, and 



234 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

such splendid weather. In the course of the whole year 
we could not have been more favored. 

If I begin to describe anything, I shan't know where to 
begin or where to leave off. And we have to go up the 
Lake of Lucerne to-day and so have no time. 

This journey over the Bernese Oberland is one of the 
finest in all Switzerland. Lauterbrunnen, the Staubbach, 
the Wengern Alps, the Jungfrau, the Monch, the Eiger, 
the Welterhorn, the Wallhorn, Schreckhorn, Grindel- 
wald, Meyringen 5 etc., etc., all have so completely filled 
my mind that I just want to pour out like these abundant 
torrents and waterfalls, which I have been seeing all 
along, but I can't do it on paper and in a hurry. I shall 
thank Providence all my life that I came. 

I have made some good sketches, but you must not 
judge of what I shall do, and of what I have in my mem- 
ory and imagination, from the meager outlines which I 
bring back. If you see only these, you will be disap- 
pointed perhaps, but if you felt as I do, how a whole new 
set of forms, and suggestions for pictures, has been 
stamped on my brain, how entirely this journey has filled 
me with images of grandeur and loveliness, of which I can 
give you no possible idea, even had I leisure, you would 
rejoice as I do that I came, and think it well worth the 
cost. . . . 

Rome, November 18, 1858. 
Last evening I dined with the Storys in their huge 
Barberini Palace. You go up, I don't know how many 
broad stone flights of stairs, and they live at the top of 
the palace. Two servants appeared, and after going 
through several enormous rooms I found Mrs. Emelyn 
and Edie sitting by a fire in a huge dining-room. A little 
while after, William came in and was greatly surprised 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 235 

to see me. I find them unchanged and just as hearty and 
good as ever. We had a simple dinner, and an Italian 
physician, a friend of the Storys came in, but did not 
dine; a very nice man with a good face. After dinner we 
went through five or six more enormous rooms, till we 
came to one where we smoked; and after that there was a 
little party of friends gathered together in the big dining- 
room, where Edie and several other children took a danc- 
ing-lesson. . . . Story has advanced very much in his 
later works. His ''Hero" and his u Margaret" are very 
fine, but his 4< Cleopatra" is great. I have seen no mod- 
ern statue, American or European, that impressed me 
so much. 

After Paris, Rome looks old and dingy enough, but so 
natural. Yesterday morning I saw old Beppo with the 
withered legs at his post on the stairs. His head is quite 
white. He has got to be an old man, but his face is as 
jolly as ever, and the same wheedling voice, with his 
*'Buon giorno, Signore." I deliberately stopped, opened 
my purse, took out a heavy two baioccho piece and 
dropped it in his hat, — for the sake of old times. I told 
him it was ten years since I had seen him, whereupon he 
smiled sweetly and enquired after my family. I could as 
little have missed old Beppo in Rome, and on his old 
place, as I could have missed the boat fountain at the 
bottom of the Spanish Stairs. . . . The other day I saw 
a woman who was a servant of ours. I had forgotten her, 
but she remembered me, and asked after you and Geor- 
gino, and kissed my hand. 

Rome, December 15, 1859. 
Though I have had no new orders or sales, I feel some- 
how encouraged. I have painted two pretty large pic- 
tures, and feel a good deal of satisfaction in them, and in 



236 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

the praises of the artists and visitors who have seen them. 
My forest scene is about finished, the best forest picture 
I have ever done. You remember the study, — that 
shady one, with the large beaches on the right. I have 
opened the woods a little on the left with a little bit of 
blue sky and dim horizon — two figures in [the distance. 
The beach trunks are painted firm and round and mossy 
and full of color and impasta, also the oaks and the foliage 
thoroughly leafy and loose, the chief light being strong 
sunshine between the trees. The ground is solid and the 
dry leaves well indicated. You can walk right into the 
picture. On the whole it pleases me better than anything 
I have done. Page saw it the other day and praised it 
much. Several artists have done the same, — I want it 
to go to New York. I will show them that I can paint 
trees as well as some others over there. 

My "Lake of Lucerne" also is much praised. The sky 
is glowing with light. It is near sunset, the rays breaking 
through the clouds and flooding the distant mountain. 
The distance even you would think distant. The water 
reflects the light of the sky, and is warm and still and 
glowing, — a boat and figures on the right, and a reedy 
flat foreground, — a boat with pointed sails in the middle 
distance. 

My studio is only a few doors nearer the Spanish 
Stairs than we lived ten years ago. It is quite large. Two 
windows open to the east with shutters to keep out the 
light when I paint, and to let in the Italian sunshine in 
the morning when I want it. One of the windows opens 
on a balcony and loggia, where I keep my wood. They 
have put me up the oddest-looking stove, of a decidedly 
monumental pattern, not unlike a tombstone, and of an 
indescribable grey color. The pipe goes out of the window 
with a sort of Roman twist, and both it and the stove are 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 237 

well smeared with mud to stop the cracks and keep smoke 
from coming out except at the right place. I have laid in 
my wood for the winter. And do you remember the 
bundles of cane we used to kindle the fires with? I had 
quite forgotten them. Now they revive old memories of 
the Quattro Fontane and of Michelina. 

... I wish you could look in and see how comfortable I 
am here. All day long the sun lies in my chamber, which 
is large and airy. My tombstone stove in the studio is 
better than it looks. It takes very little wood to heat it, 
and the chunks have a marvellous vitality, for I always 
find something left when I return from dinner. Then if I 
spend the evening at home, I transfer my brands to the 
fireplace in my chamber, which with a good fire, such as is 
now burning before me, and the very comfortable arm 
chair, a poltrone as they call it, becomes as cheerful by 
night as it is by day. 

Rome, January 20, 1853. 
Every evening this week past has been occupied with 
visits or parties, except one, when I fully intended com- 
mencing a letter to you; but I felt lazy and asked Mr. 
Clarke at the cafe to come in, and I read him my poetry 
all the evening. This Mr. Clarke, 1 I have come to like 
very much. He seems to need society and has taken a 
great fancy to me and my verses. He is a very cultivated 
and refined person, which one can't say for the majority 
of the artists here, — besides which, he knows people who 
buy pictures, and the other day brought a Colonel Green 
to my studio, a young man of wealth, who has invented a 
new rifle, which beats the Minie rifle. He has been to the 
East and has tested the merits of his gun before the Pasha 
with Minie himself. He has now gone to Sardinia to lay 
1 Gardiner Hubbard Clarke. 



238 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

his invention before King Victor Emanuel, and if he is 
successful, he promises to buy my "Hudson River," and 
Story's " Hero." 

Last Wednesday evening the Storys gave a great ball in 
their palatial rooms. It was very brilliant — altogether the 
most brilliant party of the season. There was dancing 
all the evening, and some four or five rooms open. In 
many of the Roman houses dancing is not allowed — at 
Minister Stockton's, for instance, for fear the ceiling 
would cave in. There were lots of English and a good 
many Italians, — some of them Contessas and Mar- 
chesas, and a sprinkling of Americans : some of the Eng- 
lish women very handsome and a great show of dresses 
and diamonds. Mrs. Emelyn herself looked remarkably 
well. 

. . . Wednesday was at a party at Miss Cushman's, her 
first reception in her new apartment in the Via Grego- 
riana. I met her in the street in the afternoon, and she 
asked me to come to tea. I had no idea of meeting a 
party. However, I have learned by experience that a 
social evening tea means a dress coat and so was pre- 
pared. Miss Cushman is a nice cordial genuine woman. 
As people say, "No nonsense about her." She has a 
lovely apartment newly furnished with the most exqui- 
site taste, with old carved oak furniture, curtains, pic- 
tures, and statues. . . . Lots of Americans I knew were 
at Miss Cushman's. Miss Cushman sang a ballad of 
Lockhart's in a recitative style. Mrs. Tilten sang Schu- 
bert's "Barcarolle," and Rackeman played. . . . 

To-night I am going to a party at the Sargents'. 
Everybody is to be there, I am told — and it is to be a 
white-glove party. I have found a French degraisseur on 
the Corso and left five pairs of gloves to be cleaned. He 
and his wife complain bitterly of their being obliged to 




CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRAXCH 

Taken in Rome in 1859 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 239 

suspend work on the fete days. If the police find them 
working on fete days, they are fined a dollar — and these 
fete days are forever coming. I don't wonder they com- 
plain. I told them I agreed with them, that it was a 
tyranny of the Church and Government, and that they 
ought to be paid by the Government for all the days 
they lose. 

Yesterday I went to Story's to get the address of a hair- 
cutter, when we had a discussion about my hair. It re- 
sulted in a capillary reform, by which I am assured I am 
at least five years younger. My hair is cut, and I wear it 
henceforth parted in the middle, and my beard trimmed 
close at the sides and long in front. You have no idea 
what an improvement it is. I wore it so last night, and 
two ladies complimented me upon the change. 

Rome, February 3, 1859. 
. . . Monday night I was at a musical party at the 
Perkins's. Heard some fine music — for piano, violin, 
and violoncello. The latter instrument was played by a 
brother of Mendelssohn, and there was a young lady — 
niece of Mendelssohn, very pleasant to look at — a half 
Jewish type of face, very classical. Charles P. is even 
more pleasant than he used to be. ♦ . . Last night I dined 
with Story, and after dinner Miss Cushman came in by 
invitation, to hear William read a long, half-dramatic 
poem of his — an Italian story, very tragical, which a 
lady tells of herself. It is by far Story's best poem, very 
powerfully wrought, full of beautiful thought and imag- 
ery, and of intense passion. It occupied about an hour 
and a half in reading. Miss Cushman enjoyed it very 
much, and W. read it well. . . • 



240 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Rome, March 3, 1859. 
Your letter arrived day before yesterday. It was very 
good and very entertaining. I am glad to see you were 
dissipating a little at last. Though I must say I was some- 
what startled to learn of your Roget investiture. But 
what are you going to do without bracelets and brooch 
and all that. I don't see but I must follow out my long- 
cherished desire to get you one or two handsome gold 
Etruscan bits of jewelry, to complete you, and put in the 
finishing touches. I only wish to Heaven you could have, 
as you ought to have, everything that a lady, as young- 
looking and handsome as you are, needs, to go at all into 
society. If I sell two or three large pictures in Lent, I 
shall look about for something pretty, not exactly dia- 
monds or cinque cento lace, but better and more accord- 
ant with your style. At present the Carnival is inundat- 
ing Rome, and especially the forestieri. Such a looseness 
as they are all going it with. The Haggertys and Knee- 
lands and Motleys and Sargents and young Mason had 
one balcony among them. How many hundred pounds of 
confetti, do you think they threw away the first day only? 
About seven hundred. They kept up (especially Sargent) 
a perfect hailstorm, and the first day got enough of the 
Carnival. It is very gay this year, the Carnival. It is the 
first year since the Revolution that masks are allowed; 
so you may imagine how they would rush into it. I have 
scarcely dipped into it. The first day I went up and down 
the Corso on foot, with Mr. Clarke, but only as a specta- 
tor. I have not thrown any confetti yet, and only a paul's 
worth of flowers. I think it is the flowers more than any- 
thing else which to me make the fascination of the Car- 
nival. I never see them piled up and spread out in such 
tempting show, as I go down the Condotti, with such an 
inviting freshness about them, without wishing whole 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 241 

basketsful to throw to the handsome women that illum- 
inate the Corso from one end to the other. What endless 
chances for flirtation, if one only had the time and money 
and animal strength and spirits. I am getting too old for 
these fooleries. There is altogether too much of the Car- 
nival. Yesterday I cut it entirely, and went out with 
Clarke and Mason to the Pamfili Doria, where it was very 
lovely; the air perfect spring and the grounds starred all 
over with wild geraniums, daisies, and violets. We all 

said with one accord — "D n the Carnival." We 

gathered handfuls of the lovely flowers and tied them up 
and took them home. . . . 

I forgot to tell you that I saw Salvini in "Othello." I 
never saw such wonderful acting in all my life. It was 
perfect. Such dignity, such ease, such nature, — the re- 
sult of the most consummate art, — such a sympathetic 
and musical voice, such bursts of passion, with not the 
slightest rant. It left nothing to be desired. He looked 
the complete Moor of Venice. Every gesture, look, tone 
was so natural that I was completely carried away by my 
feelings. Miss Cushman, who saw him the same evening 
for the first time in this part, told me she had never seen 
anything so fine, and she is a most admirable judge. 

Rome, May 17, 1859. 
For a few days longer you must content yourself, and 
the children, with this letter, instead of me. . . . There are 
still some things to be done and seen before I go, — and 
it is not very probable that I shall be in Rome again very 
soon. You take a different view of the prospect of the 
war being over, from that entertained here in Rome. Peo- 
ple here seem to think the war will be a long one, and that 
next winter there will be nobody in Rome. You, in Paris, 
naturally take the bright side of the case, for there, every- 



242 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

thing looks like success and victory. I have been thinking 
a good deal, that the best course may be to go back to 
America. ... I should like for many reasons to come to 
Rome for a year; but if the war continues there will be no 
forestieri here, and more fleas than ever. And if we are 
going back to New York, why not go now, instead of two 
years hence. But we will talk this over, when I return. 
We can't decide upon anything yet. ... 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

North Shore, Staten Island, 
July 6, 1859. 

Yesterday I received your photograph and your note of 
June 2. The dear old phiz was very natural, and Burrill 
had told me it was only a little greyer in the hair. My 
wife, Nannie, said it made her homesick, because it 
brought back the thought of the happy foreign days. You 
know they always seem to us happy when we are on this 
side, and I follow the armies in Italy with a sort of ro- 
mantic pleasure that people who have not been there 
cannot conceive. 

I see that you are blue. I wish I could do something to 
•take out the indigo. When I think of your coming home 
and look round to study the chances, I see the old chaps 
scrabbling alone in the old way. Church is considered by 
the public, King. Then comes Kensett. They have 
plenty to do, and good pay. Tom Hicks paints away. . . . 
The others of the old line are at the old thing in the old 
way; among the new there is no very eminent name. 

Undoubtedly, there is a greater general respect for art 
and artists here. It is quite "the thing" to know them 
and to have them. Then Belmont and Aspinwall and 
Wright, at Hoboken, open their galleries as marquises do 
in London to ticketed people. ... I should say that the 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 243 

chances are rather more favorable than they used to be. 
But it is in your art as in mine — a few draw the prizes. 
A great many of your friends wish you would try drawing 
on wood. There is more demand a good deal than there 
used to be, and a good many more workers. A man must 
be on the spot and have a certain chic, and then he has a 
chance. 

My advice to literary aspirants always is "Punch's" to 
those who would marry, "Don't." And I say it because I 
know if they have the thing in them, the "don't" won't 
prevent its coming out. So I feel about artists both here 
and abroad. I should think an artist would prefer to live 
in Rome, but I should also suppose that one who would 
succeed there would also succeed here. And if there must 
be a fight for it, why not fight in the midst of friends? 
Perhaps — and certainly more 's the pity ! — you know 
it is pleasanter to be poor in foreign countries than at 
home. 

How about your boy, my namesake? Is n't he to be an 
American, and ought n't he to be learning his own coun- 
try? I feel strongly that a man who is to live here ought 
to begin as a boy. 

In this weather it seems as if we might all be lazzaroni 
and live on air and sunshine. But we don't. The car- 
penters are hard at work building me a house (Papa, pay- 
master!) close by, and I am hard at work coining money 
to keep it withal. I have to work methodically and indus- 
triously, but I am very well and so are my wife and boy, 
who runs about and begins to talk. 

I wish I could clear up the perplexed music in your eyes 
as I see them in the photograph, and in yourself as you 
write it in the letter. We send our dearest loves to you 
and yours. 



244 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Mr. Cranch to Mrs. Brooks 

Paris, July 25, 1860. 

. . . John wrote me a long letter in June, telling me of 
dear sister Lizzie's * death, which I answered immediately. 
Then I also received yours and John's letter of last winter 
telling of Rufus's death. And received your letter in 
which you speak of coming over to us. . . . It will be a 
great delight and comfort to have you among us, and I 
have no doubt that it is the very best thing you can do. 
... I think Mrs. Kelson's will be a very good place for 
you. A great disadvantage for you and the children will 
be that you won't have an opportunity there, among so 
many Americans, of speaking any French. But you will 
be very comfortable there. ... As for your taking an 
apartment, you would be much bothered, especially by 
the cheating propensities of your cook and bonne. . . . We 
will make you comfortable somewhere near us. Paris is a 
city of conveniences, and it will be hard if we don't get 
you suited. . . . Mrs. Kelson herself is a charming woman, 
and an old friend of ours, and you will see there from time 
to time many people you would like to see. 

My dear sister, I have so much to talk about, when I 
begin writing to you, that I could foam all over the paper, 
like an uncorked beer-bottle. But I must be brief this 
time, and write again. I am quite busy now copying a 
picture in the Luxembourg Gallery; a large view in 
Venice, by a distinguished colorist here, named Ziem. 
Copying is new to me, and I like the novelty, but should 
get very weary of it, if I were obliged to keep it up. . . . 

But what good times we shall have when you come! — 

what long talks about everybody and everything! You 

will come and sit in my studio and I will read my poems 

and show you my pictures, and the children will know 

x Mrs. Rufus Dawes. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE £45 

their cousins, and teach them to talk French — though I 
dare say Nannie speaks it, as you say. We will show you 
the French side of life, and all the lions and the monkeys, 
and we will have some merry times, and forget the sor- 
rows of the past. 1 

To his wife 

Venice, September 13, 1860. 

... It is now my twelfth day here. I am afraid I have 
accomplished very little which will show, though I have 
been most of the time busy. I am gathering material, 
however, for pictures. I have done very little in the way 
of architecture, but have been studying boats and sails, 
— have painted and drawn mostly from my window, 
which looks right out on the shipping and the bay, and 
all the sea life that is going on. It reminds me a good deal 
of Naples, only far more picturesque and full of color. . . . 

We have had some rainy and cloudy and windy days, 
when the brilliant city of the sea looked all grey and 
dingy. Bad weather here is a thing not set down in the 
guidebooks, nor suggested by Byron, Rogers, George 
Sand, or any of the poets who have written about Venice. 
Neither do Titian, Paul Veronese, Turner, Canalletti, nor 
Ziem give you any suspicion of it in their pictures. Sun- 
shine and moonlight, and still water, and gliding gondolas 
we naturally associate with this wonderful old city. But 
to wake up at night, and hear the wind howling through 
the crevices of the house, and the Adriatic moaning out- 

l Among the many pleasant memories of our Parisian life are the 
Sunday visits the children and their father paid to the Jardin d'Ac- 
chmatation and the Jardin des Plantes, or the hours spent in the un- 
frequented parts of the Bois, where Mr. Cranch painted trees or 
landscapes. Those were happy times, with balmy days in the open, 
George making a collection of butterflies, the little sister and brother 
playing about with all Nature for a playground. 



246 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

side the Lido, — as if sorrowing for her long line of dead 
husbands — the Doges, — and to get up in the morning 
and look out and see all the gorgeous color washed out of 
the pictures seen from your windows — this does not 
seem to belong to Venice. Fortunately the bad weather 
has not lasted long. To-day has been lovely. I painted 
fishing-boats with gay sails all the morning, and about 
four o'clock took a gondola, — only the second time I 
have indulged in a gondola, except on arriving, — and 
glided through the narrow canals, and saw two churches 
which can only be got at by water — San Paolo e Gio- 
vanni, and the Gesuite. Tell Clarke I took notice of the 
statue of Colleoni, which is very fine. There are beauti- 
ful pictures also in the church, among them Titian's chef 
d'ceuvre, "The Martyrdom of St. Peter." They have a 
disagreeable custom here of keeping the churches shut, 
and you are pestered by a guide, when you get in, who 
must be feed, of course. But then they are content with 
very small fees. To-night there was music on the piazza 
from the Austrian band. They play every other night. 
There are about fifty performers, all wind instruments, 
who form a circle around a large chandelier of gas, in the 
centre of the Square. The programme is remarkably fine. 
They play about an hour. The Italians, for the most 
part, keep away from the band, contenting themselves 
with a distant hearing, as they sit under the arcades of 
the cafSs, at their ices and coffee. There are two streams 
of promenades, however, of mixed nations, moving up 
and down the Square, all the evening, the Austrian mili- 
tary element predominating. I am getting somewhat 
used to the short white coats (almost every other man is 
in a white coat) ; at first I could not bear to go near them. 
The people are, I suspect, much gayer than usual, — no 
doubt in consequence of the successes of Garibaldi. I 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 247 

have been surprised at the Venetian " Journal" publish- 
ing such full accounts of Garibaldi's movements — and 
of the political matters in general. Nothing is concealed. 
Of the two government papers I see, the "Journal" of 
Trieste is more Austrian than that of Venice. I see the 
"Galignani" almost every day, and sometimes the "In- 
dependence Beige." I have talked somewhat with the 
Consul about political affairs. He seems to think they 
are very unsettled here, and that the Revolution must 
come sooner or later. If this last news is true that Victor 
Emmanuel has accepted the protectorate of the Marches, 
and will send Piedmontese troops there, the great ball 
will roll on faster than ever. 

Think of Ziem while I am painting? Of course I do. I 
see Ziem everywhere. I understand things in his pictures, 
I did not before. I saw one of his twilights the other eve- 
ning, from the public garden, the only place, by the way, 
where there are trees, which it is refreshing to see, after so 
much water. And I have in petto a picture from that 
place. But Ziem takes poet's liberties. It is his own 
mind's-eye Venice that he paints. 

John S. Dwight to Mr. Cranch 

Berlin, November 22, 1860. 
Do not imagine me insensible to the kindness of your 
letter because I am so slow in answering it. The truth is 
I am slow about all writing now. Your sympathetic 
words of real, generous friendship were most sweet to me 
in these sad times, and did me good. There is at least this 
blessing coupled with a great sorrow, that it shows us we 
have friends. How I wish I could be near you indeed ! 
Berlin is a cold, dull place, with all its music and its 
gayety. But I manage to live here, and am beginning, 
after too long experience of a kind of Wandering Jew's 



248 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

life, to get settled after a fashion. For some days the 
quiet brought with it a very painful, sick-at-heart reac- 
tion, or rather relapse and exhaustion after so much and 
so long excitement — offsetting, as I had done for the last 
month, the agony within, by constant travelling and 
novelty without. It was perhaps well for me that I was 
put to this resource. And it was well, too, that I had to 
face my grief in its full force alone. It is so that one 
enters quickest into the full meaning of it and finds cer- 
tain mysterious consolations, comforters, that otherwise 
are apt to hide themselves. But ah! will this certain ex- 
altation, which comes with the direct facing of a great 
grief, be able to sustain itself at such height? I fear the 
worst is yet to come, and, in gradually subsiding once 
more, as one must, into the everyday routine of life, that 
then I shall feel more and more bitterly, at every point, in 
every little wonted nook and habit of the consciousness, 
how home exists no longer for me, and how all is changed! 
The worst is, so far, that I cannot work — for in work is 
my only solid hope of cheerfulness; in living earnestly for 
high ends to which I know her spirit calls me, singing to 
me still. Let me tell you of a reminiscence of my wife 
which William Henry Channing writes me in a beautiful 
and inspiring letter from Liverpool. He writes, as he says, 
"from a house where he is sitting alone with his dead!" 
his little Lisa — the family sent out of town for health. 
He says : — 

"During one of the sad midnight vigils, as I was 
watching by the pillow of my little girl, there suddenly 
sounded on my inward ear that magnificent Norse hymn 
(you know it, Cranch, Haydn's Canzonet 'Spirit Song') 
which your Mary used to chant with such inspiration: 
'My spirit wanders free, my spirit wanders free, and waits, 
and waits for thee/ etc. I had, it is true, been thinking 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 249 

much of you; still, it seemed like the actual presence of 
your risen friend, and never have I heard a sound, out- 
wardly, that soared so strongly in clear ether as that 
thrilling intonation 'Free! 9 It came over me like an ex- 
perience by sympathy of the fluent, all-visiting, swiftly 
transient, bright glancing life of the spirits, which was 
full of joy. And I cannot doubt that, whencesoever 
originated, this midnight thought perfectly expresses the 
fact as to your Mary. It must be a source of exhaust- 
less satisfaction, that the personal relation between you 
sprang out of, and was pervaded with, like the sap of its 
life, — the deepest unity in two immortal elements : — 
the art of music, and the ideal of social harmony. Meet- 
ing once at this centre of natural and spiritual beauty, 
you have an assurance of meeting there again and again, 
in ever deepening, ever purifying affinity. Music and so- 
cial harmony must be two of the choicest, freshest, most 
exalting joys of the angels. And well may you respond 
to the grand tone 'Free'; your friend is * waiting.' How 
her generous, grand, aspiring nature is expanding itself, 
in congenial society! How fondly and faithfully she 
watches over the loved, left behind!" 

I have made some very pleasant friends in Berlin, or 
rather, Thayer l had already made them for me, and I 
have heard incredible quantities of the best sort of music. 
Mme. Clara Schumann lives here and has made me free 
to her rehearsals. I have heard several regular symphony 
concerts by the best orchestra; symphonies of Beethoven, 
Mozart, Mendelssohn, and Haydn; and even the Ninth 
Choral Symphony, in a coffee salon (!), people sitting 
round some hundred of little tables with coffee, beer, 

1 Alexander W. Thayer. He was collecting information for a book 
on Beethoven. 



250 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

cigars, and knitting ( !), all as still as mice! As opera I have 
already heard here "Don Juan," Gluck's "Orpheus," 
with Joanna Wagner, "Fidelio," and "A Midsummer 
Night's Dream" capitally acted, so as to preserve the 
poetry of the fairies and the pure fun of Bottom, with 
Mendelssohn's music. Also Beethoven's "Ruins of 
Athens" music, which is every note inspired. In Dresden, 
too, I heard the " Zaubernote " and Weber's "Preciosa." 
. . . Making the friendship of Joachim (ask Thayer about 
him) in Dresden, was a rich comfort to me. He is a true 
man, as well as great artist. In Leipzig too I had a rich 
week musically, and I mean to go there again now and 
then, and spend a week or two. 

I knew you would like Thayer, and I am glad, both for 
his sake and for yours, that you see so much of him. But 
do pray add your counsel to that of all his friends here, 
and tell him to write his book upon his present knowledge 
and not wait until he shall know everything. I fear he al- 
ready knows too much. It never was intended in God's 
plan that any man should be too closely known. I doubt 
not God himself uses the divine faculty of not seeing, 
and of forgetting, as regards a thousand and one small 
particulars. 

I was very glad that you realized your wish of going to 
Venice; and I hope some day to see some of the fruits of 
that. . . . 

Thanks to the Swiss tramp, it gave me a fresh stock of 
physical strength; else I know not how I could have 
borne the blow that has come upon me so well as I have. 
Thayer will tell you how I saw the Emperor and Empress 
at St. Martin in Savoy; and in what clouds of impenetra- 
ble fog I groped my way over into the Vale of Chamouni, 
and how the persistent rain drove me, after one glorious 
revelation of Mount Blanc, to abandon my North of 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 251 

Italy and Stelvio plan, and beat a retreat from Martigny, 
across lake Leman, to Munich, and exchange nature for 
art. Ah! just then it was, as I resolved on that retreat, 
amid that outward gloom, that the soul and sunshine of 
my home was passing away from earth forever! 

Don't let me forget to thank you for your trouble about 
the trunk. It came duly the day after your letter; and 
after infinite fuss and patience at the custom house I got 
it off to the hotel. These stupid, self-important, cere- 
monious, fussy little Prussian officials! It cost me about 
a whole day's waiting and running about. After the trunk 
was found and I had paid the freight, the question was to 
find the Herr Inspector, and have it examined. There 
I stood, key in hand; but A sent me to B, and B to C, 
some fifteen in all; each took my papers and scribbled 
something on them, but nobody did anything. It was 
hours before I could get the trunk actually examined. 
Well it was a good study of Prussian life and Zoll-verein! 

To John S. D wight 

Paris, July 4, 1862. 

. . . Seriously, I do cry peccavi, and desire to confess 
myself a sinner, that I have not written to you, nor ac- 
knowledged the receipt of the number of your Journal, 
wherein you describe, so wonderfully well, your rollings 
and tossings, and fears and hopes in the great monster 
steamship, and your happy escape from destruction. 
Since your restoration to the good dry land of Boston, 
.and to all familiar sights, of persons and things, I desire 
to know how you have fared, and how it is with you 
spiritually. 

I have often thought of you, dear friend, going back to 
your lonely house, and even now as I think of you, in the 
dim cold light of that great calamity which came upon 



252 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

you, and which you must have felt with tenfold poign- 
ancy in your return home. . . . Believe me, that though 
I have said little about your bereavement, there is no one 
who has more sympathized with you. 
p As for myself, I have little to say, worth writing. I jog 
on at about the usual pace, and with the usual ups and 
downs. The year has been rather smoother on the whole, 
pecuniarily, than usual, and I have had several sales and 
orders. But for some time, the good luck has ceased, and 
I fear, for a few years to come, the tide will be against us. 
At the rate things are going on in America, strict economy 
must be the programme for some time, for rich as well as 
poor. And "inter arma silent artes!" When the end is to 
be, of this greatest revolution and struggle the world has 
yet seen, is beyond my powers of conjecture. One thing, 
however, I do feel sure of — ■ and that is worth years 
of bloody battle, and exhaustive expense — that the 
country is beginning to breathe a wholesomer air than 
ever it did. If we can get rid of slavery and its corruption, 
and brutalizing influences, North and South, it is worth 
all the terrible crises we are passing through. It is the 
valley of the shadow of death, and there are goblins and 
devils enough in our path, but there is light, and health, 
and peace beyond. . . . 

To George William Curtis 

Paris, January 9, 1863. 
We have heard with deep sorrow and sympathy of the 
loss of your brother l at the fated battle of Fredericks- 
burg. But he has fallen in defense of the greatest cause for 
which, in this or almost any age, men have given their 
treasures, their enthusiasm, their labors, and their lives. 
When I see young men of the North going to battle in this 
1 Lieutenant-Colonel Joseph Bridgham Curtis. 



TEN YEARS IN EUROPE 253 

way, full of such patriotism, fresh and unbroken in spite 
of the incompetency of our leaders, leaving friends, com- 
forts, prospects in life, I tell you I feel often like a miser- 
able and inefficient cumber er of the earth. Over here we 
watch with such eagerness every arrival of telegrams, and 
all we can do for you is to pray with might and main for 
our country, now alas in such peril. We live ourselves in 
dim conjecture, when, where, and how, all these bloody 
battles are to end. If we can judge by the tone of the 
papers, this last reverse is by far the severest of all we 
have experienced. At least, when coming on top of other 
failures it is the more crushing. The people have not 
seemed till now aware of the tremendous hill of difficulty 
before them. We have been the great optimist of nations. 
To subdue the rebellion we had, was but a question of 
time. Is it so now! I fear that no progress will be made, 
till we are of one mind and one heart, and one irrepres- 
sible will for the destruction of this slave power, as the 
South is for its maintenance. I have long believed there 
was no hope for the Nation but in striking directly at the 
heart and brain and spinal marrow of the rebellion. If 
we are to compromise and settle the union on the old 
slavery basis, I for one, should like to turn my back 
forever on my country. But I know that you and I are of 
one mind on this question. 

... I am going to-day to Notre Dame to hear, if I can 
wedge my way through the crowd, Mozart's "Requiem," 
performed on the occasion of the burial of the Archbishop. 
But to me it will be a Requiem over our brave young dead 
on the battle-field three thousand miles away. 



CHAPTER XII 

NEW YORK 

These paragraphs are from the Autobiography: — j 

The last two or three years of our stay in Paris were a 
time of great anxiety about the War of Secession. We 
had now remained abroad much longer than we had in- 
tended. Our children had been at very good French 
schools, but we felt that it was time we should return, for 
many reasons. 

In July, 1863, we all left Paris for Havre and South- 
ampton where we took the steamer Hansa for New York. 
We had a passage of about ten days. It was a gloomy 
time for our country. We had been a good while without 
any definite news of the war. So that as the pilot came 
aboard before arriving there was great excitement. The 
passengers crowded around the newspapers, one head 
over another, eager for the news, and it came, all in a 
heap. Vicksburg — - the opening of the Mississippi — 
Gettysburg — and on the top of all the New York Riots 
of about a week before. 

All was quiet when we landed. It was on Sunday, and 
of course we were kept back by the Custom-House rules. 
My son George and I went ashore in a boat, and walked 
up Broadway as far as the printing-offices, when whom 
should we meet but Horace Greeley going to his office in 
the Tribune Building. After greeting me, he took us up 
into his office and showed us the guns, hand grenades, 
etc., which had been in readiness all over the building in 
case of attack by the mob. 



NEW YORK 255 

Mr. Cranch to George William Curtis 

I New York, January 15, 1866. 1 

Suffer the poor "belligerent" to repose his weary limbs 
in your " Easy Chair," if you like. He is fagged out and 
weary, having asked admittance at one or two editorial 
doors, but was refused. ... I shall be thankful to have 
my say anywhere, for my tongue has long been silenced. 
The "Easy Chair" has a warm, cosey, generous fireside 
sound to my ears, and I shall be in excellent company. 

You draw it mild as to the Myopians. I also respect 
their spirit, when it is not a cantankerous spirit, and their 
purpose, whenever it rises in the least above microscopic 
imitation of the dry statistics of nature. But wherein do 
their spirit and purpose differ from, or exceed in excel- 
lence, a large number of conscientious and laborious and 
enthusiastic painters of another school? When we speak 
of pictures, we suppose they are to be criticised as works 
of art. But what principles of art do these new men not 
violate in producing their ugly crudities? I cannot regard 
them, therefore, as artists. I except, of course, men like 
Griswold, and one other man whom the Pre-Raphaelites 
praise, but whose name I forget. Griswold is one of the 
very best of them, if, indeed, he can be said to belong to 
them, but he is one whom the sapient "Tribune" Oracle 
thinks to be among the least in his Kingdom of Heaven. 
I think Griswold's last picture in the Academy was one of 
the very best landscapes on the walls. But because it had 
artistic qualities which an Academician might admire 
possibly, the Pre-Raphaelites dismiss it with a patroniz- 
ing modicum of faintest praise. 

But I had at least no thought of dipping again into 
these matters when I took up my pen. 

Times are hard with us this winter. Greenbacks melt 



256 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

like snowflakes on hot griddles. New York is so terribly 
expensive. . . . 

James Russell Lowell to Mr. Cranch 

EiiMWOOD, 21st May, 1866. 

I trust you have not forgotten that you are to spend 
some time with me at the end of this month and begin- 
ning of June. And perhaps you remember that I said I 
wished you to come in the last week of May so as to dine 
with our Club on the last Saturday of the month. Now I 
believe all external and visible housecleaning is over for 
this spring, except in the cellar, and with that you are not 
concerned, except as to a particular corner thereof where 
some babes of Bacchus are cruelly prisoned by the giant 
Glass. 

When you come, bring all your initial letters with you, 
for I think I can kill two birds with one block, by getting 
you something amusing to do in odd moments and by 
improving our breed of blockheads (to chapters, I mean, 
the other is beyond all bettering). You see I have a 
"frugal mind" like Mrs. Gilpin. Hereof fail not! I have 
been looking forward to your visit ever since I was in 
New York. Remember that next Saturday is the last of 
the month, and that I have a week of holidays beginning 
then. Don't forget the blocks. It would be a pleasant 
way of adding to your income without trouble to your- 
self, and a great gain to our books. The faculty of inven- 
tion which you have is the rarest of any. Have you for- 
gotten that I "ordered" a picture of you to be enlarged 
from King Frost the first? I want it as much as ever. I 
think your drawing one of the few original things I have 
seen. You must do more of the same kind, my dear boy, 
and make fame and fortune. Get rid of your whoreson 
modesty, which I love, nevertheless. 



NEW YORK 257 

Elmwood, Friday. (July, 1866.) 
As nobody on the face of this planet has the most faint 
conception of how the ancient Greeks pronounced their 
language, and as the custom in singing is likely to be as 
near right as any other, I should let it stand. I do not 
know whether I altogether like the impersonation of 
Afternoon — but the rhyme at worst is only an imperfect 
one, and your putting " horizon" first has already put the 
reader's ear on its guard, or on the right scent, as Lord 
Gastlereagh would have said. Elaison and Elizon are to 
me the only conceivable ways of pronouncing it. You do 
not tell me Mr. HowehVs objection. As for your other 
question, I take it that "tribe," like all other nouns of 
multitude, may be used either in the singular or plural 
according to sense. For example — "Among the N. A. 
Indians the tribe is represented by the chief." And, " this 
tribe was exterminated." But on the other hand, "Big 
Thunder's tribe meanwhile scattered in every direction 
and buried themselves," That last is from Thucydides, 
and I should pluralize it whenever the image presented 
to the eye required it. 

. . . We have been having our usual yearly row of 
Commencement. It gets rather tiresome at last. But 
folks are giving to the College with both hands. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

Albany, September 10, 1867. 

. . . Send me a line telling me how things stand, and 
how George bears this Autumn weather. 

Give my heartiest love to the incomparable Lizzie. I 
admire her more than ever, and you ought to thank 
Jupiter and all his moons — which I don't believe you 
can do with that opera glass — that you have so steady 
and strong a will in her to annihilate difficulty. 



258 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Almost at the end of the Civil War, George 
Cranch procured through Wilkinson James a com- 
mission as second lieutenant in the Fifty-fourth 
Massachusetts Regiment. He was but eighteen, but 
looked much older. He was in the South five months 
and was promoted to a first lieutenancy. His work 
was mostly receiving complaints, settling them, 
drilling his men, hoping all the time to be ordered to 
the front. Fortunately for the peace of his family, 
there was no more fighting. He afterward entered 
the Scientific School of Columbia College, taking 
high rank in his studies. He undoubtedly worked 
too hard, and a severe cold which he contracted in 
the spring of 1867 developed into a lung fever with 
complications. In the early summer he was removed 
to the country, where in September the end came 
peacefully. 

George William Curtis to Mr. and Mrs. Cranch 

Albany, September 21, 1867. 

I have only this moment seen the sad news in the paper, 
which could not surprise me, but which draws me very 
near to you in your great sorrow. I know that you ex- 
pected nothing else and that long and harrowing suffering 
had reconciled you somewhat to his release, but when I 
think of my own boy and remember that you have lost 
yours, my heart aches, and I pray God to console you. 

I wish I had known in time to be with you at the last, 
— and sometime when you can, let. me hear of the end 
and of all his sickness and suffering. 

What happy days they were for us all twenty years ago 
when he was born! How well I remember the fair-faced, 
placid baby, the little King of Rome! I thought of it the 
other day when I sat by him and he told me in his tranquil 



NEW YORK 259 

way that he did not expect to live, and I saw the same 
light in his clear, beautiful eyes that I remembered in the 
child. It was the pure light from which he came, and to 
which he has gone. It was the light of heaven that lies 
all around us, yes, around you, too, for, if much is gone, 
how much also is left ! Dearer, better, lovelier children 
than remain to you, do not live. Give all my love and 
sympathy to them, and make them feel always that I am 
theirs. 

Albany, September 23, 1867. 
My dear Pearse: — 

Your most interesting note came to me this morning 
and I thank you heartily for it. It is pleasant to know 
that the poor boy did not suffer greatly and did truly 
sink to sleep; I am glad too that Frothingham was near 
you and that all was done as you would have wished. 
These things give a peacefulness to the memory of sor- 
row, which is itself a consolation. 

Do give my sincerest love and sympathy to Lizzie, who 
I hope will recover before long from the physical pros- 
tration which is inevitable. 

. . . Good-bye, dear Pearse. I suppose we shall go 
home from Ashfield by the twelfth of October. ... I 
mean to stay there till January; I am tired of being away. 

A cottage called "Mon Bijou" was built for our 
accommodation at Fishkill by Grandfather De 
Windt, and we fell so in love with the place that we 
spent a winter there, my father coming from his 
New York studio, for Saturdays and Sundays. It 
was in the early summer of 1868 that Mr. Curtis 
visited us there, a visit which was an idyl, a dream 
of pleasure in the prose of our everyday life. 

I cannot imagine a more genial and sympathetic 



260 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

guest. His friends knew well that gentle urbanity of 
his, which, contrasted with his strength of will, and 
nobility of purpose, made his unbending so sweet 
and beautiful. I am inclined to think he was the 
most just man, as well as tender, I ever knew — if 
being just means the ability to put one's self into 
other people's places. 

The visit must have lasted a day or two, for I 
remember gathering roses to put at his plate in the 
morning. There was a climbing Baltimore Belle 
with a tea centre, that had opened, seemingly ex- 
pressly for the Howadji, as my mother sometimes 
called him. 

What a delightful breakfast it was, and what 
interesting scraps of talk we had that June morning ! 
There was music, too, to lull the senses and carry the 
listeners back to enchanted isles of sentiment and 
suggestive thought. 

Out of the haze of memory come to me the tones 
of Mr. Curtis's voice, clear, ringing, which carried 
far, with deep chest-tones as in his addresses. He 
naturally articulated well and used unconsciously 
the best English, and as one accustomed to speak 
with authority as well as dramatic effect. His smile 
and humor were irresistible. And I never heard him 
say a mean thing about any one. 

I was especially interested in what he said about 
keeping a journal when a young man. What he said 
was something like this : — 

"If I had kept a journal in the days when I first 
went abroad, not of the little happenings, but of the 
impressions of the places and of the people I have 
met, and of the books I have read, it would be inval- 
uable to me now. I advise every young person to 



NEW YORK L 261 

keep a journal for impressions of the events which 
affect him, and not of the daily routine of life." 

He told us how to read the morning newspaper. 
First, to glance over the headings, read carefully the 
condensed news, then the reports of the proceedings 
of the House; next the foreign news and an editorial 
or two, — and presto ! you have the kernel of the nut 
in a short time, leaving the shell empty. 

The drives taken with our neighbors', the Ver- 
plancks', horses were through aisles of woods, on 
country roads, looking down the river, to majestic 
old Storm King, little Dutch Sugar Loaf, and 
Crow's Nest, — these mountains shutting out the 
great noisy world without, while within, it was 
Utopia. 

After Mr. Curtis returned to his work, there ap- 
peared in the next month's "Harper's Easy Chair," 
an account of the music of our voices, blending with 
the mountain breezes. It was done in that graceful, 
suggestive vein, which had all the charm of his own 
personality. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

Ashfield, Massachusetts, 
August 11, 1868. 

No, my dear old Boy, Planchette is a liar and the 
daughter of the father of lies. I never knew her to tell the 
truth, and I never expect her to. We had her at the is- 
land, and she scrawled and scrambled, but whatever she 
did, she lied. She is a tiresome imposter, and the Lady 
Elizabeth will soon discover it. 

I am glad you went to Boston and saw Lowell, for there 
is a certain air in their regions — I do not mean the east 
wind — of which we get no whiff in our diggings of New 



262 " CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

York. I shall miss seeing several of the Cambridge men 
up here, where they come to see Norton. 

We are very comfortable in his house and we should be 
mighty glad to see you. It is a splendid region for walking 
over the hills and far away, and for remembering the dear 
old friends and the dear old days. 

Good-bye, dear old Arcadian, for that you must al- 
ways be. My love of loves to Lizzie, and Nora, and the 
youngers. 

James Russell Lowell to Mr. Cranch 

Elmwood, September 28, 1868. 

Why should n't Howells write you a pleasant letter 
without my being to the fore? Are n't you going to cele- 
brate your silver wedding on the "10th prox." (as the 
newspapers say), and is n't Howells a young man who 
knows the respect due to such old fogies as you and me? 
My dear boy, we have arrived at a period of life when 
our years (if not our poetry) command respectful atten- 
tion, and we ought to make the most of it. I liked the 
verses you sent me, though I should have liked to make a 
criticism or two before you printed 'em — but why, after 
sending them to the "Atlantic," are they to appear in 
"Putnam"? Are you torn in pieces, like Orpheus, by 
contending editors? Or are you still so young that you 
can't wait to hear from one before you print in the other? 

By the way, Lee and Shepard are going to print a new 
edition of "Kobboltozo." Did you know it? And are 
you still interested in the copyright? They wrote me to 
ask if your middle name was Pearse, and I took the 
opportunity to advise them to make haste and secure 
your story of "Burlibones," or they might lose it, the 
publishers were so crazy after it. I shall sell it yet, you 
may depend, and I shall act on the Sibyllian precedent. 



NEW YORK 263 

The longer I keep it, the more I mean you shall get for it. 
It is good, and that 's the main thing, whether printed or 
not. 

I am going to print a volume of poems this fall, and I 
shall send you a copy among the first, emboldened by 
what you say of the "Biglow Papers," which was very 
pleasant to me. If you don't like some of 'em, I shall be 
crusty. 

Should n't I like to be at Fishkill on the " 10th prox." 
and to meet George Curtis and to have a good time gen- 
erally? But I can't, because I am not a gentleman, but 
merely a professor, and the 10th October comes of a 
Saturday and on Monday I have to be here to deliver a 
lecture. You need n't have been so sensitive about my 
bringing any silver, for I am poor in that respect as an 
apostle, and am at my wits' end to pay my taxes, which, 
more by token, must be paid precisely on the day of your 
jollification. But had it not been for my lecture, I would 
have been with you, if I had had to borrow the money for 
the journey. My mouth waters to think of it. Let me 
hope that when you celebrate your golden wedding I 
shall be luckier. 

Meanwhile, my dear old boy, let me wish you all kinds 
of a good time on the 10th, and drink my health as if I 
were there, as I shall not fail to do for you when the day 
comes. I will pronounce it a festival and spend a bottle 
of champagne on it, if it be my last. And, though I can't 
come to you, why can't you, who are a gentleman and 
lord of your own time, come to us this winter for a day 
or two? Let us consider it settled. I shall complete my 
half -century on the 22d February, '69, and why should not 
you help me? 



264 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Elmwood, December 18, 1868. 

How could you think that I had forgotten you — I, 
who would rather have (if I can say so with this abomin- 
able pen) one old friend with a silver-mine in his hair, 
than all the new ones that were ever turned out? You 
don't even deserve to be forgotten, if such a notion ever 
entered your absurd old head. No, I had you down on 
my list of persons to whom my new volume was to be sent, 
but I had of course forgotten your number on Broadway, 
and yet was pretty sure you would n't be at Fishkill. I 
did n't wish the book to become the prey of some Johnson 
Postmaster (and just consider the feelings of an author 
whose book was derelict because not called for), nor to go 
wandering up and down Broadway in an express wagon, 
as disconsolate as a Peri we used to read about in the days 
when Plaucus was Consul. Now all you have to do is just 
to send me word whether the volume will reach you 
safely, if sent by express to No. 1267 Broadway, or 
whether I shall have it forwarded to T. & F.'s New York 
house, to be called for by C. P. C. And when you get it, 
I am of so singular a turn of mind that I don't care a 

d (d stands for penny) whether you find anything 

in it to like or not, provided you will continue to like 
J. R. L. Nay, on those terms, you may even dislike it, if 
you will. I would rather have a pennyweight of honest 
friendship than a pound of fame, or — what is about as 
solid — flattery. 

Now I am going to put your friendship to the test. I 
am to be fifty years old, and to celebrate my golden 
wedding with life, on the 22d February of next year. 
G. Washington was forthputting enough to be born on 
that day (pereant qui ante nos!) but he did not take all the 
shine off it. If he was the father, I am the son of my coun- 
try — a relationship as close as his'n. Well, now to the test 



NEW YORK m5 

of friendship. I was never so far ahead of the Sheriff of 
Middlesex County (the very one for a poet to be born in, 
who must have lots of mother in him, like vinegar), as I 
am now. Therefore I wish to make myself a present of a 
visit from you about that time, and in short will you 
come if I will stump the rusty? Say yes, or I will cross 
you out of my will in which I divide the unsold copies of 
my works among my more patient friends. 

My old clock in the entry has just given that hiccup 
with which tall fellows of their hands like him are wont 
to prelude the hours — and the hour is midnight. My fire 
and my pipe are both low. I must say good-night. I have 
had great difficulty in saying what I wished with this pen, 
which has served me I know not how long. But I have 
stood by it, and that should convince you (if you needed 
convincing, as I am sure you did n't) that I don't give up 
an old friend even when he has lost his point. But that 
is something you can never do for me, and I shall ex- 
pect you on the 22d of February, 1869, G. W. to the con- 
trary notwithstanding. You shall meet Rowse and John 
Holmes and a few other old boys, and shall have a warm 
welcome from Mrs. Lowell (who thinks you handsome — 
that way madness lies !) and Mabel and me. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

North Shore, Staten Island, 
January 16, 1870. 

I am not surprised that your mind has turned to 

lecturing, and you may be sure that I will do all I possibly 

can; but you know that it is a work in which no man 

can be helped — except to a hearing. If an expected 

speaker fails, the Committee do not accept a substitute, 

but choose him, — and notoriety is the ground of choice. 

But if a speaker gets a chance and pleases — it is easy 



266 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

enough to go on. Committees are rather wary of the rec- 
ommendations of speakers given to other speakers, as 
they have been abused, by the good nature of the craft. 
But everybody can get a chance somehow. Why should 
n't you speak in the little course at Fishkill, where I was 
this last week, staying at Eustatia and having a delight- 
ful visit. Of course you would be willing to take a small 
fee in beginning. Getting the chance leads to getting the 
money, and therefore you can afford to take the chance 
cheaply. Then there is the Sunday afternoon Horticul- 
tural Hall course in Boston, where all the liberals speak 
and of which Frothingham will tell you. It would intro- 
duce you to that most desirable Lyceum neighborhood, 
and if you would like to see if there is a door open I will 
write to the chief manager. 

Your subject is capital. The difficulty that I always 
encounter is to remember the difference between an ora- 
tion and an essay. I am so in the habit of writing to be 
read, that I forget how entirely different a thing writ- 
ten to speak is, and my lecture in the course of deliv- 
ery is transformed from the cabinet picture that leaves 
my study, into a fresco. A lecture is twenty times better 
the twentieth time of its delivery. . . . But you have 
been a speaker in other days and you know these things. 

Gridironville, 1 August 9, 1870. 

When I was in Paris a friend of mine, a French artist, 

made a very clever caricature. The king's prime minister 

in the likeness of a monkey, a knife in his hand and a 

1 My father was boarding with his family at Lexington, Massa- 
chusetts, quite too near the railroad station for his sensitive ears. He 
ludicrously makes an amusing tale of the annoyances which kept him, 
no doubt, from sound sleep a part of the warm nights spent there. In 
one of his letters to a friend he calls it the "Devil's Kitchen," and 
here "Gridironville.'* 



NEW YORK 267 

cuisinier's cap on his head, meets a flock of ducks and 
addresses them thus: "My dear ducks! The king, my 
master, desires me to ask you in what sauce you would 
prefer to be cooked." The poor ducks reply, "But we 
don't wish to be cooked at all!" — to which the prime 
minister rejoins, "Mes chers Canards, vous sortez de la 
question!" 

In this broiling and seething weather, the thermometer 
playing at unheard-of heights, and everything out of 
doors baking and frying and browning and gradually 
turning to cinder, I often imagine myself one of these 
poor ducks, dreaming of visionary rivers and ponds and 
distant phantom lakes in a sandy desert, and the great 
clerk of the weather threatening me in common with all 
human creatures in these parts, with sardonic monkey 
grin and gleaming kitchen knife, and asking the perpetual 
question, "In what sauce would you prefer being cooked?" 
Then I fancy the whole out-door landscape converted into 
a great kitchen. Everything fries and sizzles. The 
summer sounds are all culinary. The branches of the trees 
are ribs of gridirons, and the locusts, which are more 
lively now than all the other insects, except the tickling 
and stinging and importunate house flies, — the locusts, 
which seem to be singing, are only bubbling and simmer- 
ing and sizzling deliciously in fat. They really seem to 
take intense satisfaction in being cooked. Some modern 
John the Baptist might enjoy the frittata which seems to 
be preparing from their unctuous little bodies, far better 
than the old-fashioned Oriental mode of devouring them 
raw. As for the poor birds, they are all roasted and sent 
to market. All I can hear of them is one melancholy 
little phcebe bird, who seems to be in the last agonies of 
culinary martyrdom. 

The frogs, too, are all sacrificed, baked brown on the 



268 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

clayey bottom of the dried-up ponds. The blessed sun is 
only a mighty kitchen fire, and the earth is but a huge 
pumpkin turning on a spit beneath his blaze. The upper 
crust is very well done. Great cracks and seams are visi- 
ble in the soil. The winds and breezes are only the 
breath of mighty bellowses; adding fuel to the flames. In 
what sauce shall we be cooked? Sometimes it seems as 
if the tyrannous prime minister of the weather allows a 
little choice. For he now and then sends us a close steam 
bath of a summer morning, when our roast or broil or fry 
changes to a boiling state. Then we simmer and stew as 
quietly as the voracious flies allow. For it is on such 
mornings these pests are most lively and virulent. You 
may escape the heat a little, but there is no escape from 
the flies. If you are drowsy in the afternoons and would 
indulge in a nap, they become aware of your intentions 
and redouble their attacks upon every portion of your 
epidermis that may be exposed. There is no killing them 
with heat. Frost is their only enemy. 

I happen to live near a railroad station and a junction 
and a vast amount of cooking seems to go on there, and at 
most unseasonable hours. For sometimes at midnight 
there are four or five huge locomotives that meet to- 
gether and pass an hour in a sort of nocturnal and 
mysterious picnic. Nobody could object to this if they 
did it quietly, but they don't. For miles around, they de- 
clare their shrieking and sputtering sentiments. I look 
out of my window down the hill, and there the black 
monsters are all squatting like so many gigantic cooking 
stoves on wheels, and after half an hour spent in puffing 
backwards and forwards, and hissing and yelling, with 
occasional spasms in which they all appear to be laughing 
a sort of demon laugh, or else tumbling off the track into 
the river, they all commence in a somewhat milder strain, 



NEW YORK 269 

and spend the rest of their picnic in frying fish, — and 
from the fumes now and then wafted to my olfactories, 
I should think there were omelets of very bad eggs, — 
after which, they start off with frightful and unearthly 
noises, each his own way, and blessed silence reigns. | 
But the secret reason of these midnight steam orgies 
I can't discover. With a little imagination they might be 
as good as Norse mythologies. Thor and Jotunheim and 
Asgard and all that. But, alas, — they are too palpable 
to hearing as to smell for the imagination to have any 
hand in it. I defy even Messrs. Fish and Vanderbilt, 
those conscientious interpreters of all railroad affairs, to 
explain what these iron demons can be about at these 
witching hours of the midsummer nights. 

In 1871, Mr. Cranch took a cottage at Staten 
Island, belonging to Mr. Hoyt, so as to be near his 
sister, Mrs. Brooks, and his friend, George William 
Curtis. He writes from there to his elder daughter : — 

Hoity-toity Cottage, Staten Island, 
July 29, 1871. 

. . . You must be thinking of packing your trunk and 
leave your pleasures and palaces, where though you may 
roam be it ever so humble and without closets and lock-up 
places, and surrounded by a rude Hibernian population, 
there's no place like Home! The piano threatens to go 
into mourning with black crepe around its legs and is get- 
ting sulky and out of tune; the black spiders are spinning 
their webs over your music, and no sentimental listeners 
stand at the gate in the moonlight to hear your dulcet 
notes, and the Irish boys have all the wind taken out of 
their lungs, and all their jovial and refreshing hilarity has 
evaporated now that they grieve to hear no more " As it 
fell upon a Day" and the other duets which they are 



270 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

wont to appreciate with those gentle and sympathetic 
demonstrations of joy peculiar to the tumultuous and 
excitable temperaments of the exiles of Erin. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

Ashfield, Massachusetts, 
October 2, 1870. 

We are coming home this week and I hope to see you 
before long, but I want to say how beautiful your poem 
in the " Atlantic" seems to me. It is as sunny and mellow 
and grape-rich as one of these soft October days and above 
all, it is unspeakably true. 

I had the most striking corroboration of that in a letter 
which I received just as I had read your poem. It is 
from a man who makes money rapidly. Fancy turning 
from your skylight to read this: "I feel as if I should stop 
trying to make money, and I seriously think of going out 
of business at the end of the year. One has only one life, 
and when one has such friends as I have, one ought to be 
able to see them now and then. No money compensates." 

Is n't that pleasant to read under the light from the 
sky? 

. . . Give my love to the dear Lizzie and Nora and 
Carrie. Did you think sometimes in the September days 
of our journey through the Tuscan vineyards? 

James Russell Lowell to Mr. Cranch 

Elmwood, May 12, 1871. 
I have sold enough land to add about three thousand 
dollars to an income which was nothing in particular 
before, except as I could earn it. But I am not going 
abroad yet a while. I hope to manage that in a year from 
now at soonest. However, a great load is taken off my 
shoulders, for since Atlas, nobody ever carried so weary a 



NEW YORK 271 

burthen of real estate as I, and he, if he had been taxed 
for his load as I have been, would have thrown it down 
long ago. Pray Heaven Boutwell and his allies don't 
get at him in our day — at least not before I have enjoyed 
my new-fangled ease a year or two. 

Your letter anticipated one which I was about to write 
you. The time of the singing of birds has come, and I 
have been meaning for some time to ask you, my dear old 
singer, to come on and meet them in my garden before the 
blossoms go. I depend on you to help make spring every 
year, and we will have a jolly good time, for I am younger 
than I have been these ten years, and have tapped a new 
cask of good spirits. I won't even be depressed by your 
manuscripts and you may be thankful that I have been 
too busy lecturing to have any of my own to revenge 
myself with. So come as soon as you like and bring your 
winsome Maro. 1 Fair hangs the apple from the rock, and 
we will try and bring it down together. As a commercial 
venture, I am doubtful about your enterprise, though for 
the literary part of it I would back you against the field. 
At any rate, you may reckon safely on any service that I 
can render. A visit to Elmwood will do you good, and 
there are the Oaks and the Waterfall, and my apple trees 
will be blooming next week. Therefore, stand not on the 
order of your coming, but come at once. Though your 
doleful tone would lead me to think you had never a 
shirt to your back, borrow a clean one as soon as you 
get this and start for the boat before the owner reclaims 
it in order to send his other to the wash. And be sure and 

1 Mr. Cranch began his translation of the JSneid in 1869. At first 
it was an amusement, but he became deeply interested in it, and 
translated book after book. In 1870 he went over his work with three 
clever young friends, Titus Munson Coan, N. B. Emerson, and Frank 
T. Brownell. Later he read it at Elmwood, where Mr. Lowell would 
criticise and comment on it. 



272 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

bring me a copy of Sarony's larger photograph of C. P. C, 
which I want that I may have it framed and hung in my 
dining-room with other friends to make me merry at 
meals. If you don't, I won't let you have a drop of any- 
thing weaker than well water while you are here. 

I am delighted to hear of Page's deserved promotion, 
God bless him! It recalls the days of my youth, as 
Ossian, I think, remarked on some similar occasion. Of 
course, gentlemen in easy circumstances can't be ex- 
pected to take more than a distant and depressing inter- 
est in artists and that kind of thing, but I shall endeavor 
to show all proper sympathy that shall not be misinter- 
preted into an encouragement of undue familiarity. I 
think I may safely ask you to give him my love, for it 
costs nothing and cannot, I should suppose, be twisted 
into an order for a picture. 

Now remember : on getting this you are to start east- 
ward forthwith, and expect to be jolly and help waste a 
little time, which will be excellent fun, for on such a day 
as this, it is worth a thousand dollars a breath. Wealth 
does n't protect one from headaches, I find. I have had 
one these three days. 

Rev. William Greenleaf Eliot to Mr. Cranch 

St. Louis, January 8, 1873. 
I came home from college work to-day soon after one, 
having had two lectures and continued close occupation 
for four hours, so that I was tired all over; but on the 
table was your book by express, and before I sat down I 
opened it, admired the whole getting up, and began to 
read; and read and read until legs rebelled; then kept on 
until nearly two books were completed. Several special 
places also, and a description of Rumor, I read carefully, 
equally delighted with the poetry and the literal rendering. 



NEW YORK 273 

Then the Latin Virgil I went over, page after page, my 
two boys following me. On the whole, it seems to me the 
most successful translation of poetry into poetry I know 
anything of. You remember Bentley's criticism of Pope's 
Iliad? " It is a very pretty poem, Mr. Pope, but you must 
not call it Homer"; but yours is Virgil and as exact 
almost as if you were making a school translation for 
students, while the verse is pure English. 

If you come to a second edition, I should like to sug- 
gest a word, here and there, but perhaps not to its im- 
provement. Undoubtedly it will work its way and that 
quickly. 

Mr. Cranck to Mrs. Scott 

West New Brighton, New York, 

May 22, 1873. 

I think you are right when you say it is about time I 
wrote to you. And though I have no special news to tell 
you, I know you will be glad to have a letter from me, 
though it be a short one or a dull one. There is a season 
of life — and you are in that sunny zone — when letters 
flow out of one like trickling streams down the mountain- 
side. I think I have got into the Arctic Circle. With old 
gentlemen of my years, the streams flow with a sort of 
slow, glacier movement, save at rare intervals, when 
thawed out by some unwonted solar rays. 

We are having rather dull times here. The spring is 
a cold one, but the trees are growing very green, and the 
blossoms are out in abundance. We are trying to let the 
house for the summer, but I don't think there is much 
chance, for there are about a dozen other houses to let in 
the neighborhood. 

By Mrs. Shaw's kindness, I have heard Rubinstein two 
or three times, and never can cease from my delight, as 



274 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

well as my amazement at his wonderful memory, no 
less than his absolute perfection of execution. To-night 
is his last concert in America, where he plays nothing 
but his own music. I heard him at one concert play 
Bach, Handel, Scarlatti, and Haydn, and that exquis- 
ite Fantasie of Mozart's which you play — commencing 
with those grand, deep, changing chords. I thought of 
you when he played it, and so did George Curtis, who sat 
near me, and I enjoyed it tenfold for its associations, and 
that I knew every note of it almost by heart. The next 
concert I heard him in, was the Chopin recital. It was 
fine, though a little of a surfeit of Chopin, and I thought 
he took several pieces too fast; and others thought the 
same. But I wish you could have heard him play the 
Berceuse, — perhaps you did. This was the fourth time 
I heard him. 

To his brother Edward 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 

May 29, 1873. 

... I don't forget that this is your birthday, and that 
you are sixty-four to-day. Time was when I considered 
you very much my senior, but when we reach the sixties, 
why, those small differences of age are almost obliterated. 
Here am I, sixty years old. Somehow sixty seems to set 
the stamp of old age upon a man. 

While I was in the fifties I fought against the Stamp 
Act. I was rebellious, like our forefathers of the Revolu- 
tion. And even now, except now and then when age will 
shake his finger at me with a lugubrious air, I can't well 
believe that he hath " clawed me in his clutch," for I am 
not very old as yet. Still in my ashes live their wonted 
fires. The other day I was told that a lady whom I know, 
set me down as forty-five! ! I was not much puffed up by 



NEW YORK 275 

the compliment, and laid half of its weight to a want of 
observation on her part. . . . 

We are all well, spite of the hot weather, which has 
sprung upon us with a tiger leap. 

Did you get an " Independent" I sent you? I write for 
it still. The " Galaxy" and "Atlantic" for June contain 
verses of mine, and there will be an article about Fontaine- 
bleau Forest in "Appleton's Journal" soon, with some 
illustrations of mine. . . . 

To George William Curtis 

Staten Island, September 27, 1873. 

My wife insists upon my writing, though I tell her I 
am not in the mood. What with packing books, and 
pictures, storing away in closets of the odds and ends of 
things left, trying to smooth down the various bristling 
ends of other things that can't be packed away, or sat- 
isfactorily disposed of, seeing to this, and seeing to that, 
and the entire brain oe-cobwebbediddled and set on eend, 
and flying all abroad, — the time is not exactly favorable 
to writing, particularly as I have so much to say. 1 

But when I get beyond Jordan, in that classic land to 
which the Fates are calling me, like old iEneas, then I 
hope to write to you. I am sorry on many accounts to leave 
Staten Island, especially in the winter while you are here, 
but hope to gain by going to Boston, where I shall try 
to get a studio, and sell some pictures. . . . Glad to see 
you Harpering again. 

1 Mr. Cranch used to groan beforehand over these changes, but at 
the time was cheerful, and packed books, china, and anything re- 
quiring special care, beautifully. 



276 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

George William Curtis to Mr, Cranch 

Ashfield, Massachusetts, 
October 2, 1873. 

My dear and wicked Bedouin, — 

How could you do so? In these beautiful days I have 
been strolling about the splendid country thinking of the 
happy winter when I should not lecture, and we should 
come in upon each other every day. For a month I have 
been reproaching myself that I had not written to tell you 
that we should soon appear, and now comes your letter, 
and I want to cry. 

Well, the world is a place in which we play at hide and 
seek with our friends. I thought that we had at last found 
each other — but it turns out that we are lost instead. I 
wonder will you come back with the bluebirds? Will you 
stay until the east winds of June start you in your 
classic shades? 

Will you ever come back again? 

My dear old friend, if you knew how sorry I am, you 
would know how much I love you always. 

We have all been very well all summer. But oh ! — no 
matter! I hope that you will all be very happy. 

Mr. Cranch to George William Curtis 

Cambridge, Massachusetts, 
October 8, 1873. 

It is too true, alas, that we have all taken wings and 
flown from your New York. Considering all things, this 
seemed to be best. The Island had many attractions, 
though you were away, and we seemed to have struck 
down some roots which it was hard to pull up. But house- 
keeping was expensive; we were cut off from the city 
more than we liked; there was no school near us for 
Quincy; and no chance for me to make any money by 



NEW YORK 277 

painting. Though boarding here is not cheap, and though 
it costs a good deal to get a tutor for Quincy, yet the 
change is, I think, good for him and for us all. We have 
a few friends here and in Boston, and I certainly can do 
no worse in my profession as a painter here than there. 
And for whatever literary work I am to do, this may be 
the best place for me. 

I am grieved that I shall not see you as I expected, for 
I had looked forward to having you near us all the winter, 
and must bear this disappointment as I can. . . . 

We have seen Henry James, and Frank Boott, and 
their households. Shall you not be coming this way, 
ere long? . . . 



CHAPTER XIII 

CAMBRIDGE 

The following is from the Autobiography: — 

When I came to reside in Cambridge, after an interval 
of close on forty years since I had seen the architectural 
shades of Harvard, I could hardly get rid of the feeling 
that I was living in the shadow of authority. It seemed 
as if some invisible professors were haunting me, and as 
if — as sometimes in my dreams — I might be called 
upon at any moment, to explain why I had dodged the 
recitations, and absented myself from my duties. I felt 
a great yawning gap in my knowledge of matters, which 
even the Freshman of to-day should know. I was an 
ignoramus trespassing on the domain of scholars. In my 
long years of artist life, the bottom had almost dropped 
out of my old curriculum. Any schoolboy might stump 
me on the textbooks. One day a venerable ex-professor 
invited me to dine. I felt as if I was summoned to a 
recitation unprepared, and I had the effrontery to tell 
him so. I was relieved to hear him speak slightingly of 
one study at least which was thought very essential forty 
years ago. But now it is amazing to think how much of the 
superficial life may go on unfettered, untrammeled, in 
the very shadow of these majesterial buildings. . . . 

The social life of Cambridge is one of the great charms 
of the place. The heavy work that goes on in the college 
buildings has no deadening or stiffening effect upon the 
freedom of movement in general society. The profes- 
sional centre of pure white light is fringed about with the 
most liberal play of rainbow colors. There are clubs for 



CAMBRIDGE 279 

light reading, and charades and private theatricals, in 
which even college professors love to disport. . . . 

There is one element left out in the composition of 
Cambridge society — that is — the artistic. Cambridge 
knows little, and cares little, about art. But this is hardly 
to be expected, for some years to come. And even then, 
it will perhaps not be, from any spontaneous impulse 
in all that belongs to a liberal education, but from a sense 
of duty and an ambition to be "up to the universe." 

Mr. Cranch to 0. B. Frothingham 

April 15, 1874. 

I have just finished your Life of Theodore Parker, the 
book presented to me by Mrs. Parker, and therefore all 
the more prized; and I feel impelled to express to you my 
thanks among the many readers you cannot fail to have. 
You have done a great work. I can understand what 
laborious hours you must have given to have read so 
thoroughly and condensed and arranged so admirably 
his manuscript letters and journals, and in that crooked 
chirography of his. You have presented the whole to the 
public with a completeness of portraiture never, I sus- 
pect, given before. Your biography is so fresh, too, so juicy 
and fragrant; combines so well the sympathetic and the 
critical; eaten so into the very marrow of the man, and 
shows him to us so vividly in every phase of his career, 
and every side of his mind and character, and so floats 
him on the delightful current of your own thought and 
style, that it seems to me a fascinating book. Of course 
I don't deny that a great part of its charm to me may have 
been in reviving my recollections of Theodore himself, 
though I saw almost nothing of him after those West 
Roxbury days. But your book fills out and carries on the 
picture of him to my mind, and gives me his whole life 



280 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

as I never so well knew it, and makes me realize how 
great he was, as I never did before. . . . 

On Sunday last what do you suppose I did? I actually 
preached at the Memorial Hall. My subject was "The 
New Faith," in which I took lots of ideas from my New 
York pastor. I believe it is to be published in next Satur- 
day's " Common wealth," though I had n't the slightest 
idea of its being printed when I wrote it. But Mr. Slack 
pounced upon me with an editorial pistol and I did n't 
know what to do but stand and deliver, though I had 
already stood and delivered it to the whole congregation. 
I felt that I wanted to have once the satisfaction of saying 
in the Fraternity pulpit the things I did say, and I had a 
large and attentive and apparently sympathetic audience. 

Your picture of Parker makes me feel ridiculously 
small, and thus I have wasted more of my life than I care 
about remembering. But it's no use for me to cry about 
it. I am growing old, but perhaps I may do something 
yet that may be of some little service to my fellow crea- 
tures. But this Theodore Parker haunts me and rebukes 
my conscience terribly. 

To Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Cambridge, April 27, 1874. 
Many years ago our friend Margaret Fuller suggested 
to Mrs. Cranch that I should send you one of my sketches 
or pictures, and my wife has not forgotten to remind me 
often of it. But it was a seconding of an inclination on 
my part to do so. Will you accept a little landscape that 
I painted for you this winter, and which will soon reach 
you? And let it feebly express the lifelong debt of thanks 
I owe you for all that your works have been to me, ever 
since your little book "Nature" first came to me like a 
sunrise of truth and beauty. 



CAMBRIDGE 281 

I take the liberty also of sending you my " Libretto." l 
And I am now, as ever, with the same admiration and 
affection, 

Truly yours, 

C. P. Cranch. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson to Mr. Cranch 

Concord, May % 1874. 

Your double gift of poem and picture came safely to 
my house and eyes the night before last. The picture, 
of necessity, drew the first attention, and pleased and 
pleases all beholders. Mrs. J. M. Forbes, who was here, 
and who is herself an incessant painter, praised it warmly, 
and I, who am necessarily a dull critic in art, was glad to 
be justified in my innocent approbation. My son, a young 
doctor, who also sketches, and my daughter who draws, 
fully consented. The book with its dangerous title lies on 
my table, and waits a prosperous hour. I have always 
understood that you are the victim of your own various 
gifts; that all the muses, jealous each of the other, haunt 
your brain, and I well remember your speech to the 
frogs, which called out all the eloquence of the inhabit- 
ants of the swamp, in what we call Sleepy Hollow in 
Concord, many years ago. 

We are now in the hardships of the worst spring that 
I can compare with my remembrances : but I trust it may 
yet lead us to as fair a summer as its sisters have done, 
and I trust my wife may be well enough, and you good 
enough, and I unloaded enough of my slow task, to 
secure us a visit from you on the best day. 

Gratefully yours, 

R. W. Emerson. 
L l "Satan." 



282 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Edward Pope Cranch to Mrs. Brooks 

Cincinnati, May 27, 1874. 

Bertha and Emma came safe and well yesterday, in 
time for tea. Having not slept much on the journey, they 
accordingly sat up all night talking; and, I suppose, 
intended to talk until they fell over in their chairs, which 
I believe they did do about two o'clock in the morning. 
At any rate, we certainly did n't have a very early break- 
fast to-day. To-night they migrate to Pike's Opera House 
to hear the second grand concert of the Harmonic Society, 
in which is to be performed Liszt's " Prometheus," which, 
being a Pagan myth, I suppose it is not proper to call it 
an oratorio. It is very Liszt-y indeed, and jerky. The 
time is full of delicate rests, like walking on tiptoe, or 
rather an Oriental egg dance — full of peril — as we 
make narrow escapes sometimes; going it with a sense 
of vertigo, and wondering how we got there, — the voices 
being wafted over the chasms by trombones and haut- 
boys. It is perfectly awful. When the society sing it we 
look like a collection of people having a fit. 

I don't know what dear Emma will think of the old 
Harmonic after hearing the Boston Handel and Haydn. 
I think we are pretty good on a regular trot, like the 
"Messiah" and "Creation." We can even keep along- 
side of that active little roadster, Bach, whose legs move 
under him so quick. But if you want to see fits of hysterics, 
you ought to see us in "Prometheus"! It is a perfect 
nightmare. The Detlingen "Te Deum" and the "Sta- 
bat Mater" last night were splendid. We had a great 
house, and everybody was delighted : I think must very 
nearly have paid expenses. That Mrs. Smith has such 
a clear, pure, high soprano, and sings so accurately ! Whit- 
ney is a magnificent bass. If our Emma had had Mrs. 



CAMBRIDGE 283 

Barry's part, and Varley had been a natural-born tenor, 
which he is n't, and the Cincinnati Orchestra had stopped 
scratching, the Quartettes would have been perfect. 

. . . Well, just pray for me; thermometer 90°, standing 
in cloth coat, on the top tier of two hundred singers, 
whose natural temperature excited by "Prometheus," 
and blazing gas, and audience of two thousand down 
there, and the spiders in the ceiling hatching their eggs 
prematurely on account of the heat, singing something I 
don't know, jostled by nervous elbows, and sympatheti- 
cally affected by a general fuss — and this at sixty -five, 
when I ought to be in bed snoring a natural bass to my- 
self like a husband and father. . . .Annie enjoys it though. 
She is one of the altos. I go for her sake. 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, July 4, 1874. 
The other day Margie sent me your letter to her of May 
27, or rather that portion of it describing Lizst's " Pro- 
metheus," and your experiences in the chorus. I would 
not have missed that letter for the world. So good is it 
that it is a shame it should be buried in a portfolio, and 
I have just committed a bold deed in transcribing some 
extracts therefrom which I have sent to Dwight for his 
Musical Journal. They are too good to be lost. I wish 
I could move your ambition and vanity a little on this 
score. You ought to write more in this vein, and publish 
it. You ought to make a collection of your letters and 
other writings, or let some friend do it, and immortalize 
yourself, let yourself be set on the pedestal and in the 
niche that belongs to you, for there are few who have 
your gift. I have extracted into my manuscript book 
several pages of your letters, as master-pieces. O that 
you could be persuaded to write more and publish. You 



284 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

don't know your own powers. Long, long ago you ought 
to have chosen literature for your field, or else that in 
which Nast is making a fame and fortune. But it is n't 
too late to do something. I don't see any falling-off in 
your genius. You have the spirit of youth, and gifts such 
as yours should not be buried in napkins. I wish you 
would send me something for my own delight. I will 
promise not to publish, if you say so. I feel as if I were 
losing so much of you, in these long, long years of dis- 
tance between us. Let Bertha or Emma or Annie hunt 
up and copy now and then. There must be treasures 
somewhere. Margie lent me some of your letters to your 
wife and daughter when at Milan, and I have rich ex- 
tracts from them. 

This is Independence Day, and the bells are ringing like 
mad; there never was such a place for bells as Cambridge. 
It is like Florence or Rome. This morning before sunrise 
they began it; — this is the noonday peal, and this after- 
noon and at sunset I suppose there will be more of it, 
with chimes to boot. But no guns, no cannon, not even 
a firecracker has been heard, nothing bigger than a tor- 
pedo. . . . Many people have left Cambridge. I suppose 
all the boys are suppressed by law, clapped into barrels, 
or sent off somewhere. But O these bells! It is a little 
too much. There is a big Newfoundland dog in the street, 
who evidently can't stand it; he is running about barking. 
Certainly pealing and barking go naturally together. . . . 

Cambridge, November 26, 1874. 
This is Thanksgiving Day and a bright sun is shining 
in at my study windows, and giving me strong hints that 
I ought to be thankful for a great many things, — too 
numerous to mention. One thing I am sure of, that I 
thank Heaven for you, though I don't see you in the flesh, 



CAMBRIDGE 285 

and don't know whether I shall see you or not, on "the 
other side." I wish I had your perfect faith in that. One 
thing, however, I am sure of, and that is that all is and 
will be for the best, and if it is best, we shall meet there, 
we shall meet. But it is all a mystery. You modestly count 
yourself out of the circle of the shining ones. But if your 
statue were set in the right light, I know many others 
whom the world applauds who wouldn't be worthy to 
hold a candle to you. Do you remember Hawthorne's 
story of the "Great Stone Face?" I am reminded of it 
when I think of you, of all you are and have been, though 
you have n't the art of putting your best foot foremost, 
and early in life contracted that, I suppose hereditary 
habit, of dodging the crowns of glory that were seeking 
you out, — and running to hide your light under every 
bushel measure you could lay hold of in the streets of Cin- 
cinnati. If you ever do succeed in getting on the other side 
of Jordan, in a conscious state of existence, I hope the 
first thing you will take lessons in, — but you must go to 
school to some very old and experienced and worldly- 
wise angel, — will be to take your angel-trumpet and 
blow it; not vaguely hint that you deserve to have a 
trumpet, or if you have it, insist upon not playing solos 
on it, even in your own parlor, but put up with a back 
seat somewhere in an orchestra! Now, the fact is, that I 
have learned a little of this worldly wisdom, though, to 
be sure, rather late in life. Some of that sort of Cranch- 
iness you allude to has been slowly oozing out of me with 
the gathering of the snows of age upon my old head. Un- 
fortunately it is rather late to turn it to any successful 
account. I suppose, on the whole, it is of little use now 
for either of us to try to step forward to the foot-lights and 
insist upon a solo. Have n't the audience seen us all along 
back there alongside the meek bassoons and monotonous 



286 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

kettle-drums? Have n't they seen me, at least, "trying 
the stops of various quills," from the clerical trombone to 
the secular and artistic flute, and what chance hath such 
an one, should he announce himself as a singer or an or- 
ganist? Of such things, if we succeed in getting that free 
pass to the other land, we will talk one day, not with 
stooping shoulders and hoary beards over the latter end 
of a sea-coal fire, but strolling along the shining streets 
or out in the meadows of Asphodel, with no debtors after 
us, no bankrupt court business haunting us, no ridiculous 
abstracts of time and space to surmount, before we can 
have our talk. Seriously, to me, all reason, all analogy, 
all type and correspondence intimates that hoped-for 
conscious, and if conscious, then social state of being 
beyond the utter incompleteness of this life. Over and 
over I have reasoned myself into the belief and have 
written out my reasons so that it would seem like a tre- 
mendous mockery, a lifelong practical joke, altogether 
out of keeping with my idea of the perfect love and wis- 
dom of the great divine order, this limiting existence, i.e., 
conscious existence, which is the only existence worth 
anything, to this little period of life on our speck of a 
planet. We are something more than coral insects, I take 
it, put here only to build up our little atom of the great 
world-reefs for those that come after. There is n't a 
greater philosophical humbug than M. Compte's "Im- 
mortality of the Race." 

I don't know how I got into this sermonizing strain, I 
suppose it was your letter, and the morning sun at my 
windows, and the stillness of Thanksgiving Day that 
set me going. But when we can talk, let us talk. Why 
don't we talk oftener? If it were as easy to write, as to 
speak, I suppose we should, only once in a while some 
harmony of circumstances makes it easy. 



CAMBRIDGE 287 

Last night we had a little party, about a dozen. Among 
our guests were Charles Elliott and wife, our near neigh- 
bors, and your friend, Mrs. Sarah Perkins. After tea and 
chocolate we had quite a jolly evening. Miss Lizzie 
Boott sang an Italian song and her Pa, Mr. Frank Boott 
sang two of his own songs, a good pair of Boots, and I 
sang "Heathen Chinee" and "Chiquita," and "Isaac 
Abbott," and made the crying baby. After which our 
friend Brooks gave his inimitable specimens of acting — 
"Widow Bedott" and the old woman telling the shad 
story, ending with his celebrated Fourth of July oration. 

Cambridge, February 19, 1875. 
I must tell you of a great pleasure I have had in read- 
ing over several bundles of old letters of Father's and 
Grandfather Cranch's. They were sent to me by Richard 
Greenleaf , in whose possession they have been until now. 
He wrote me a note saying that I ought to have them. 
But they don't belong to me any more than to you. I 
know you will be glad to read them when you get time, 
— and if you come on to see me, or if I should come on 
to see you, we will have that pleasure together. There 
are several letters of Grandfather Cranch to Grand- 
mother, while he was in Boston, in the Court of Common 
Pleas, — she being in Braintree, — and a few notes from 
Father while in college — to grandfather. But the great 
bulk of the letters are from Father while in Washington, 
with rough drafts of Grandfather's answers. These extend 
from about 1792 to 1811. They open to me many vistas in 
the family affairs and tell many events I knew nothing 
about. Everything is so circumstantially detailed that 
I seem almost to have remembered it. All his plans, his 
uncertainties, his despondencies, his hopes, his removals 
from house to house, his purchases and speculations — 



288 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

his farms, his sheep — the politics of the day — under 
Jefferson's administration — the fears of Executive in- 
terference with the Judiciary — the honors that fell to him 
— the various ups and downs of health and sickness, the 
children, the neighbors, etc.; and all so closely written, 
in the same even, familiar hand we used to know so well. 
Then the relations between him and his parents — so 
tender and affectionate and deferential — the light too — 
shed on Grandfather Cranch, brings me for the first time 
to an acquaintance with this remarkable man. I wish 
to heaven we had some sort of portrait of him. There was 
once a pencil drawing of him by father — a mere rough 
sketch, that I remember having seen. What became of 
it? Nothing of our Grandmother either. How did it 
happen they were never painted? When on the Greenleaf 
side the portraits go back a generation or two farther? 

The letters end abruptly, just before the Hon. Richard 
Cranch's death in 1811. Grandmother Cranch, I think, 
died the same year, and very shortly afterwards. The 
birth of each child is mentioned in Father's letters — 
and sometimes there are little notices of them, as boys 
and girls. . . . 

I feel now like a person who has read only the first 
volume of a novel, and knows, or fears the second is lost. 
I want to follow the fortunes of the family from Washing- 
ton to Alexandria, and see how I came into the world; 
and to know some few incidents attending my early 
childhood. Are there any letters preserved, of this period? 
or later? Perhaps Margie has some. She is the chief 
record keeper of the Cranch family. I never knew before 
that there was a Christopher Cranch before me — I don't 
mean the infant of Mother's that died — but a Chris- 
topher in Richard Cranch's time — in England — one of 
his cousins. It looked queer to see his signature on those 



CAMBRIDGE 289 

yellow old letters. One of the most interesting letters 
of Grandfather's, is one in which he tells of the original 
Christopher Pearse, for whom I was named. He was our 
Grandfather's grandfather and must have been born 
during Cromwell's Civil War. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

Ashfield, Massachusetts, 
August 1, 1875. 

My long intention to write to you naturally conquers 

me to-day, and I pledge you and Lizzie in a deep draught 

of affection and memory. That it was actually so long 

ago, that Saturday morning when the Nebraska dropped 

down the harbor, I, of course, decline to believe. I know 

only that it was not a more beautiful morning than this, 

and that we could not have been any younger. For both 

of us, for all of us, what a rich world and life it has been 

since that day! The only stain is that you and Lizzie will 

be Arabs, and that you have never stopped travelling 

since the summer morn when we cast off at the foot of 

Wall Street. But I do not lose faith that you will yet 

return to your native Staten Island! 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, December 5,^1875. 
I received your letter to-day. Sunday is a lucky day 
for letters I think. There is no carrier, but I go to the 
P. O. and stand in the queue, and I am generally re- 
warded for my patience. I am very glad you got my book. 
I was afraid it miscarried. It is delightful to have such 
heartfelt praise. What a comfort in this crowded market- 
world, where our particular hobbies are so shoved aside 
and knocked down and run over, in the great press and 
thoroughfare, to have a brother whisper such words of 



290 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

encouragement ! Go to ! you and I and a very few others 
will organize a mutual appreciation club and warm each 
other's inwards, and quaff deep draughts of the wine of 
brotherly love in our old age, and the gentle exhilaration 
thereof, shall be to us instead of the intoxicating fumes of 
the Cup of Fame! I think I only want to be appreciated 
— that's what we all want rather than the world's fame. 

As to the Libretto for the "Cantata of America," I 
dare say I was very rash to consent to do it. I see what 
may be done, vaguely see it; but it doesn't at all shape 
itself yet to me in a lyric or dramatic form. I have no 
inspirations as yet. I shall pray for them. I am tolerable 
at meditative poetry on America, as you may see in my 
Phi Beta poem, but have n't got hold yet of a conception 
for dramatic music. 

There must be a sort of chaos to begin with, like 
Haydn's "Creation" overture. Do you remember 
Gardiner's description of it in his "Music of Nature?" 
Show it to Mr. Singer. Let him make his overture. But 
it is funny my saying what Mr. Singer ought to do, before 
I have an idea of my own. 

How would it do to have a wail and lamentation from 
the Red Men, on their vanishing wigwams and hunting 
fields, and the encroaching white pioneers? But some- 
thing grander must precede this. Mystical voices from 
the old world, predicting the discovery of the new world, 
and the uprising of a great shining continent beyond the 
unknown ocean. I shall have to pump at the dry cistern 
of my wits; perhaps to bore an artesian well, before I 
touch my Castalian fount. I am frightened to think of it. 
But if I don't do it, somebody else will, who can't do it 
either. If ever I had to invoke the Muse it is now! Let 
us pray for favorable conditions. Medium work and 
spirit manifestations are nothing to this. 



CAMBRIDGE 291 

Last night I read an essay on Shakespeare's Sonnets at 
Mrs. J. T. Sargent's in Boston. 1 I met there a lady I knew 
in New York, a musician and writer, who likes my book 
immensely. These little sops are sweet under the tongue. 

1 Mr. Cranch was often called upon to speak, or read an essay at 
the meetings of the Boston Radical Club, generally held at the home 
of Mr. and Mrs. John T. Sargent, 17 Chestnut Street. This club 
had gathered in nearly all the freethinkers of Boston. It was laughed 
at in New York as too intellectual for human nature's daily food, 
and was called a "brainy" club. Many of its members had been Uni- 
tarian ministers, who had left the pulpit, as too cramping an atmos- 
phere for their unfettered thought. The New England literary lights 
gathered here to hear and discuss vital philosophic problems. It was 
the most advanced club in Boston. 

Mr. John T. Sargent, the founder, had been a Unitarian pastor with 
a parish in Boston. His loyalty to Theodore Parker cost him his 
church. He did not hesitate at the call of his inward convictions. He 
held true to these, notwithstanding the pressure from without. In 
those days Parker's grand iconoclastic sermons made him seem, to 
conservative Unitarians, almost a heretic. To-day all thought, and 
thus life, is profiting by the courage and single-mindedness of the 
pioneers in religious thought. Channing, Parker, Emerson, and later, 
Bartol, Hedge, Cranch, Sargent, and a host of others, helped on this 
spiritual Renaissance. 

Mr. Cranch once read his poem "The Bird and the Bell" at this 
club. This poem was a meditation in Rome upon the freedom of the 
bird contrasted by the bondage of creed, suggested by the ringing of 
church bells. The discussion which followed was interesting. From 
a press clipping, at the time, some of those present were: "Rev. 
Samuel Longfellow, Rev. Charles G. Ames of San Francisco, Bronson 
Alcott, Mr. John S. Dwight, James Redpath, Rev. Mr. Potter of New 
Bedford, Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, Mrs. Edward D. Cheney, Mrs. A. M. 
Diaz, Mrs. Caroline M. Severance, and Mrs. Laura Curtis Bullard of 
New York." 

Mr. Cranch made a favorable impression in his reading. To quote 
from a newspaper clipping: "The reader's face, voice and manner 
added very much to the charm of his poem. He is tall and squarely 
built, with a strong, yet sensitive face, white hair and beard; his 
manner is pleasing; and there is a certain magnetism about him that 
placed him at once en rapport with his audience, while his voice is 
sympathetic and held even those who could not see his face." 



292 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

To George William Curtis 

Cambridge, December 26, 1875. 

I was exceedingly glad to hear from Mrs. Curtis's 

letter of the 16th, for which please thank her, that you 

were so much better. I hope nothing has occurred to 

give you a Hinterschlag, but that you and the beautiful 

weather have duly agreed with each other, and that you 

have been able to take your walks, and have gained 

strength daily. I am anxious to hear again, and hope you 

or Mrs. Curtis will drop me a line to confirm our hopes. 

We remembered you at our Christmas dinner yesterday, 

— only three of us at the table now, you know. . . . 

I have been busy painting several small pictures. . . . 
I have also done some good poetical work, the best of 
which I consider ten sonnets addressed to my brother 
Edward. I write no sonnets now except in the orthodox 
Italian manner, with the double rhymes. I have taken a 
studio in Boston for the winter, and shall get into it in 
the New Year. I shall throw out my nets. There is 
better fishing in Boston than in Cambridge, which is the 
the deadest place for art I know. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranck 

West New Brighton, December SI, 1875. 
Your letter was very welcome and finds me quite well 
again. The trouble seemed to be an attempt at gastric 

fever, which our old Doctor D skilfully baffled. I 

read your book with my heart as well as with my eyes 
and mind. It is like you as a photograph is, into which 
the full likeness does not get, yet which wonderfully re- 
produces the person. It is full of an inward music for me, 

— the music of happy memory, none the less happy that 
by distance it is somewhat shadowy and pensive. I have 
never ceased to be glad that my first sight and feeling of 




CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH, 1878 



CAMBRIDGE 293 

Italy were with you, who in the true sense are an Italian, 
and son of the South. My mind constantly reverts to 
Rome, and Rome in those young days of glory in the past 
is forever blended with you. I hope, but I do not suppose, 
that the book "sells." I do not suppose it because I 
know how slowly the wares of Parnassus go. 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, February 27, 1876. 

I think the lines I send must end the Cantata. If any 
more is needed by Mr. Singer, please let me know. The 
whole thing seems rather short, but then I know the 
music has a way of spreading it out over a large surface. 
If it is only the right thing, a little goes a great way. I 
am glad that what I have done pleases. I am open to any 
suggestions of emendation. . . . 

I go to Boston every day to my Studio; but must give 
it up either by the middle of March or 1st of April. Carrie 
is there part of the time. 

Did you read my sonnet on "Pennyroyal " in the March 
"Atlantic"? I wrote it last summer in the country, one 
Sunday morning lying under an oak-tree. I thought my 
love of pennyroyal was a specialty of mine and a few 
others, but it seems the sonnet has brought out half a 
dozen sympathizers. Only to-day I received the thanks 
of an old Boston lawyer, and at the same time Howells 
showed me a letter from a gentleman in West-Newton, 
with a poem which he had named "Pennyroyal," till he 
saw mine; very good, too, it is. I will here transcribe some 
lines of mine, which will appear in the "Atlantic," some- 
time. They are to nobody in particular, but to a sort of 
Ideal Voice. 

All day within me, sweet and clear 
The song you sang is ringing. 



294 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

At night in my half-dreaming ear 
I hear you singing, singing. 

Ere thought takes up its homespun thread 

When early morn is breaking, 
Sweet snatches hover round my head, 

And cheer me when awaking. 

The sunrise brings the melody 

I only half remember: 
And summer seems to smile for me, 

Although it is December. 

Through drifting snow, through dropping rain, 
Through gusts of wind, it haunts me: 

The tantalizing old refrain 
Perplexes, yet enchants me. 1 



Mr, Cranch to George William Curtis 

Cambridge, January 10, 1877. 

I should have replied before to your kind letter. Mr. 
Alden has probably told you that he has accepted the 
poem I sent through you, and has paid me for the lines 
and illustrations, for which I consider myself in great 
measure indebted to you. I am much gratified too that 
you and Mr. Shaw liked my verses in the "Atlantic." 
Boott, who is now in Rome, has set to music some of the 
stanzas, and has sent it to Ditson for publication. . . . 
You have doubtless heard that Story is a grandpa. But 
Boott only alludes to this distantly, and tells me nothing 
about the Maestro. 

We had a glorious concert here last night at Sanders 
Theatre. . . . Paine's new Romanza, and Scherzo for 
piano and 'cello went off finely. All the Cambridge Slite 
are at these concerts, and a good many Bostonians. I 
think you have n't seen the new theatre. It is very beauti- 

1 The poem is printed slightly altered in Ariel and Caliban and is 
called "lone." 



CAMBRIDGE 295 

ful, holds fifteen hundred people, and is well adapted to 
music. In the Beethoven Trio for piano, violin, and 
'cello, the Andante Cantabile was the most divine thing 
I have heard for a long time. I saw John Dwight and 
Lowell and Norton, and other friends of yours at a dis- 
tance. 

On Monday next is the Annual Dinner of the Harvard 
Musical Association at Parker's in Boston, where I shall 
give my contribution in the shape of some verses, of a 
light and humorous vein. 

Write and tell me how you have been this cold and 
snowy winter. I keep Carrie's sketch of you on my study 
mantelpiece and look at it every day. It is very like you, 
and / think, is a masterly sketch rough and unfinished as 
it is. 

John Bigelow to Mr. Cranch 

294 State Street, Albany. (1876.) 

It seems to be in the order of Providence that I should 
renew my intercourse with you after a long separation, as 
the Messenger of Affliction. I have just received a letter 
from my son giving an account of his shipwreck at 
Yokohama and of his first two days in that city; his diary 
and previous letters not having come to hand. 

With his letter is a sort of log kept on the margin of a 
map in which is registered the distance and course of the 
ship each day, from New York to the rock on which it 
split, with a brief entry of any unusual incident. I was 
shocked to read opposite November 15, the following: 
" Quincy Cranch fell off the mizzen royal yard and was 
killed — Ship kept her course." 

On the tracing of the route opposite the 17th day of 
November there is the following entry, "Death of 
Cranch 38.56° lat., 18.28° long. Cape of Good Hope. 



296 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

This is all, and yet far too much! Doubtless you will 
have heard, before this, fuller details of this catastrophe. 
Should my son's diary, or letters, ever come to hand, I 
will profit by anything they may contain to answer some 
of the numerous questions which this meagre record will 
provoke. 

You will break this intelligence to Mrs. Cranch and 
your family as you best can. God knows how sincerely 
I sympathize with you and them. 

M r. Cranch to George William Curtis 

Cambridge, March 19, 1876. 

Your kind letter was received, telling us what we are 
always sure of, your love and sympathy. Our poor boy, 
as you may have heard before this, fell from the mizzen 
royal yards on the 15th of November last. He must have 
been killed immediately, for he struck the starboard 
quarter boat, from which he fell into the sea. This is all 
we know. It must have occurred somewhere near the 
Cape of Good Hope, as we gather from a letter from Mr. 
John Bigelow, who had a son on board the Surprise, who 
sends him his diary, in which Quincy's death is confirmed. 
The shock to us all was terrible, made all the more sad, by 
our utter ignorance of all that had occurred to him on 
board ship since he sailed on the twenty-fifth of Septem- 
ber. The last word we had from him was a postal card off 
Sandy Hook. 

Lizzie was away at Fishkill when I read the letter from 
Mr. Tuckerman enclosing the brief extract from the 
Captain's letter to Mr. Lyman, partner of A. A. Low & 
Co. It was on the 8th — my birthday, at five o'clock p.m. 
as I returned from Boston. Carrie and I held a consulta- 
tion, and it was thought it would never do for Lizzie to 
come back alone, so I left Boston in the nine o'clock train 



CAMBRIDGE 297 

that night and waited for the train from Fishkill. It was 
there, at the station, that she first learned the news. We 
left that afternoon and returned. Lizzie was ill for several 
days, but she is now well again, and strong, and full of 
faith that she will see her boy again. Then he is spared 
so much struggle and trial in this world. The sharpest 
bitterness of the blow is becoming gradually less. It is a 
blessed thing that we have work to engross us. This, and 
time are the great consolers. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

West New Brighton, February 21, 1877. 

. . . Life goes with us as usual. Your old avenue is get- 
ting well peopled. Mr. Shaw has built three new houses 
on it during the year and now proposes two more. As I go 
out to my daily walk, I do not fail to see Lizzie potter- 
ing over her plants in the sunshine, and I wonder why you 
do not come out and join me. Sidney Gay is my only 
companion, but with you I recall Italy and "golden 
joys." 

Politically it has been a most exciting winter, and the 
end is not until the fourth of March is gone. Luckily I 
have no kind of official ambition, so my soul is at rest. 
My Lizzie's music is a great delight, and for so young a 
girl, she plays very well. 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, December 30, 1877. 
It does me good to hear from you, after so many months 
of silence. Don't give up writing to me; if only a few lines. 
Let us make this one of our duties and pleasures for the 
year 1878. Life is short, and thousands of miles and long 
periods of time between us, but postage is cheap, and a 



298 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

letter now and then is a bright star rising on our darkness. 
I thank God that you and I only grow old in body, not in 
soul. We are old boys. Let us hullo to each other still 
across the mists that are settling around us, and if we 
can't see each other we can hear each other's voices. 

On Christmas Day I was sick in bed with an attack of 
vertigo, a thing I never had before. (But our good 
Doctor soon cured me.) We were all invited to dine at 
Henry James's; but Lizzie and Carrie went without me. 

I was at the "Atlantic" dinner, on Whittier's seventieth 
birthday, of which, I suppose, you have seen an account. 
I did n't get home till near two o'clock, I believe; but 
then I waited for Mr. Houghton who brought me out in 
his carriage. I had written a sonnet to Whittier, and sent 
it to him, and received a pleasant answer from him; but 
as the sonnet was printed in the "Tribune," it could n't 
properly be read at the dinner. 

The next evening I was at a party in Boston, at Mr. 
Eldredge's — brother-in-law to Story — who was there, the 
party being for him. It was a big, fashionable party, and 
though I went late, I was almost the first there, and be- 
sides, much to my disgust, had on a pair of shrilly creak- 
ing boots, and there was no carpet on the stairs! This 
was awful. But I said to myself, "I'm an old gentleman, 
what matters it?" This looks as if I were a society man. 
But I'm not. I'm almost a hermit. 

To Mrs. Scott 

Cambridge, April 5, 1878. 
... I am sorry you have the "blues." Yet you would 
n't be a real chip of the old block, if you hadn't them 
sometimes. Some bodily and mental temperaments are 
subject to them, and some are not; and it is hard for the 
latter to understand the former. I used to be greatly 



CAMBRIDGE . 299 

troubled that way, and am sometimes still. Your mother's 
temperament is totally different from mine and she never 
could understand the malady. It is probably one third 
circumstances, and two thirds inherited temperament, 
and of course is aggravated by any temporary derange- 
ment of bodily health. The only remedy is occupation, 
and putting ourselves, if possible, into the currents of 
healthy and joyous influences. It is like the change of the 
weather. In nine cases out of ten it is as hard to account 
for the blues as it is for meteorological changes. 

We have been having Sunday afternoon meetings; a 
little movement got up among some of the liberal people 
"unchurched" in Cambridge. They are small gatherings 
of about twenty or more gentlemen and ladies, meeting at 
each other's houses, where an essay is read and followed 
by conversation. They have been very interesting. The 
first meeting was in our parlor, March 10, where I read 
aloud the "Immortal Life"; the second, at Mr. Parks's, 
where Mr. Beckwith, a young minister, read about 
"Centripetal and Centrifugal Forces in Thought, and in 
Society"; the third, at Mrs. Stearns's, essay by Professor 
C. C. Everett on "Nature"; the fourth, at our house, 
essay by Mr. Weiss on "Idealism and Materialism." 
Weiss and John Dwight dined with us that day. The 
conversation was more interesting than usual, much less 
formal and bookish and stilted than at Mrs. Sargent's 
Club. We have had no organization, or name as yet, and 
I don't know whether we shall, except the appointment of 
a Committee, of which I am chairman, to provide read- 
ers. Next Sunday, Mr. Sydney H. Morse reads, and the 
next, Dr. Hedge at his house. I think it would be a good 
thing for you to try it in Burlington, where, I dare say, 
there are a good many who don't go to church, yet feel 
the need of some spiritual and intellectual communion. 



300 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

To his brother Edward 

(1878.) 

. . . Once they were all up before daylight and started 
off in a wagon for the prairie, which they saw at sunrise, 
starting up meadow larks and quail and other birds, in the 
crisp frosty morning, now and then getting out to walk 
and warm themselves. Carrie, 1 with her artist's eye and 
soul, was delighted with the scenery. They were gone 
three or four days from Burlington. On the way back, 
C. and N. must needs take a ride on the engine! which, I 
suppose, is a sort of initiation into real Western life. 
Some ladies told C. the cow-catcher was even preferable 
to the engine! They had about twenty minutes of it; it 
was exciting, but a rough ride. . . . 

If you want to know what I have been doing, I can 
hardly tell you. Only I am generally busy about some- 
thing. I try my hand at too many things, I know, but 
somehow I can't help it. . . . I send some verses occa- 
sionally to some magazine, and I paint pictures. . . . My 
latest things have been some water-colors, chiefly Vene- 
tian subjects, which I shall send to the New York Exhibi- 
tion for February. I sold two there last year. And these 
are better. . . . 

Then, translating verse is one of my vanities. I believe 
I told you I had done the ten Eclogues of Virgil into 
hexameter, line for line. This was some time ago. I 
think it is one of the best things I have done. Lately I 
have been trying my hand at a few of the Odes of Horace. 
One of them is published in the first number of the New 
Series of Dwight's "Journal." So you see I try "the 
stops of various quills." I have enough translations of 
shorter poems, of the German and Latin chiefly, to make 
a volume, but there is no demand for such wares. . . . 
1 Miss Cranch was visiting her sister in the West. 




JOHN WEISS 



CAMBRIDGE 301 

But I am running on, and here is the end of my paper. 
I will hunt up that "Symposium." I like such reading, 
too. But sometimes I like to cut loose from all thought on 
the Problem of Life, which I can never solve and go back 
to my canvas and brushes, where I can enjoy work and 
not be obliged to think on these tangled questions. 

Cambridge, May 21, 1879. 

We have just returned from a two months' visit to New 
York. We kept house in the Gilders' rooms. Mr. R. W. 
Gilder the poet and his wife, Mrs. Helena DeKay Gilder, 
who is a painter and a friend of Carrie's, have gone to 
Europe for a few months, and we stepped into their 
place, which consists of two big rooms, one of which is 
a studio, entered through a court and an iron gate which 
opened, in foreign fashion, by pulling a long wire from 
within. Our bedrooms were only spaces partitioned off 
by screens. We had a basement below with a cooking 
stove, and the Gilders left us their colored girl for cook and 
waitress. They left all their books and furniture and 
bric-a-brac adornments. We found butcher and baker 
and grocer within easy distance, and on the whole were 
comfortable, and lived cheaply. I managed to paint a 
little, but having no room to myself, did no writing of any 
consequence. Carrie was very busy at her classes and Mr. 
Chase's instruction at the Artists' League, and thinks she 
derived much benefit therefrom. 

We made two visits to Staten Island, and were two 
weeks up the River to see our relatives in Fishkill. I was 
within three doors of the Century Club, and they gave 
me a card of admittance during the time I was in the city. 
We saw hosts of old friends and acquaintances, heard 
Frothingham preach, and were at the reception given to 
him before he left for Europe, which was a great occasion. 



302 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Many friends wanted us to stay in New York, but it is 
not the place for us. It is too big, and too noisy. I was 
homesick for our quiet life in Cambridge, and am very 
glad to get back again. 

I wish I could hear from you sometimes. But I ought 
not to complain, for if I, who have so much leisure and 
the free use of my fingers, am still such a bad correspond- 
ent, what must it be for you with your hours crowded 
with work and your lame wrist! . . . 

I can't remember when you wrote to me last, or when 
I wrote to you. I wish, if you can't write, you would 
dictate an epistle, or send me a scrap of drawing. Now I 
come to think of it, you will be actually seventy years old 
in a few days ! And I am creeping along close to your steps. 
And fate still separates us, and the mystery of life and of 
the great Future still wraps us about, and we know noth- 
ing about the Beyond! And yet I am sure that all will 
be for the best. Now I think of it, I will send you four 
sonnets, written last March, on this great theme. But I 
am inclined to think it best, if we can, to forget all about 
Death and the Future, and live in the Present. We've 
got to let these things take care of themselves. — What 
have we got to do with it? If a man by taking thought can't 
add one cubit to his stature, neither can he add one day 
to his life. All we can do is to submit to the Great Ruler 
of events, and trust and hope. My great creed now is to 
believe in the Unconscious life, and take counsel of it. 
And its great lesson is Faith, and not Doubt or Denial. 

And I trust too that even in this mortal vale we shall 
meet again, and that before long. 

Cambridge, May 29, 1879. 
I am going to celebrate your birthday by transcribing 
a poem I have just written, — finished to-day, but I don't 



CAMBRIDGE 303 

know what to call it. 1 It is I think mainly suggested by a 
very remarkable article which I have been re-reading for 
the fourth or fifth time, written by a friend of ours, Dr. 
William James, son of Henry James, senior, and pub- 
lished in the January number, 1878, of the St. Louis 
44 Journal of Speculative Philosophy." I wish you would 
look it up and read it. It is a sharp and very able criti- 
cism of Herbert Spencer's "Definition of Mind." Dr. 
James is also Professor James, Professor of Philosophy 
in Harvard, — and promises, I think, to make a great 
mark as a philosophical writer. 

To George William Curtis 

Magnolia, Massachusetts, 
July 19, 1879. 

Here we are by the seaside, where we have been for over 
a week. It is a pretty place, with plenty of trees about us, 
and bushes, which grow down to the water's edge. We 
are within two minutes' walk to the beach, where wife and 
daughter religiously plunge nearly every day into the ice- 
cold water. But I don't think the bathers, on the whole, 
are very enthusiastic in their devotions. There are a good 
many very nice people here, mostly ladies, with the usual 
sprinkling of young men, married and single, who go 
about in colored sailor shirts with limp, turn-down collars, 
and no vests, and young ladies who swing in hammocks 
and read novels, and a select dozen of whom are artists. 
We have very small rooms in the Sea View Cottage, and 
take our meals at the Central House, which is Willow 
Cottage. Rooms all full. I am in the smallest room, I 
think, I ever was in, say about eight by twelve feet, in- 
cluding the closet. But have a fine view of the sea from 
the window. The table is excellent, and the company 
1 "A Word to Philosophers." 



304 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

refined and agreeable. There are pretty bits among the 
willows, but as to the shore views, I am disappointed. 
Unfortunately I can't take my long exploring walks, as I 
am troubled with a lame rheumatic knee, which seems to 
get no better. Yesterday morning, while I was painting 
a group of willows with the sea beyond, three New York 
artists made me a call as they were taking a walk in 
search of subjects. . . . 

Our anniversary is fast approaching, and I hope to hear 
from you as usual on that memorable day. How goes it 
at Ashfield? Give our love to all, and greet the green- 
wooded hills for me. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes to Mr. Cranch 

296 Beacon Street, December 14, 1879. 
I have thanked you verbally for your presence at our 
Breakfast, and for the beautiful sonnet which you did me 
the honor of reading at the table. But I am not satisfied 
without writing these few lines to say that I most fully 
appreciate your kindly remembrance which took such a 
form that I can preserve it among the enduring memorials 
of what was to me one of the great occasions of my un- 
eventful life. 

TO OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 

A fountain in our green New England hills 

Sent forth a brook, whose music, as I stood 

To listen, laughed and sang through field and wood 

With mingled melodies of joyous rills. 

Now, following where they led, a river fills 

Its channel with a wide calm shining flood 

Still murmuring on its banks with changeful mood. 

So, Poet, sound thy "stops of various quills," 

Where waves of song, wit, wisdom charm our ears 

As in thy youth, and thoughts and smiles by turns 

Are ours, grave, gay, or tender. Time forgets 

To freeze thy deepening stream. The stealthy years 

But bribe the Muse to bring thee amulets 

That guard the soul whose fire of youth still burns. 



CAMBRIDGE 305 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
April 18, 1880. 

What do I hear of your going away? How can you do 
such a thing? I have just been reading your beautiful 
verses in the " Atlantic." They are very touching and true, 
but too sad. 

Why should you go away? What have we all done? 

To-day the spring begins here. It is still, and warm, 
and blue, and the Forsythia, and Periwinkle, and com- 
pany, are in full blast. But if you are really going, what 
is the name of the curse-rigged ship, and when does she 
sail and whence? I shall be very, very sorry if this story 
turns out to be true. We are all well, and we all send our 
love to Lizzie and Carrie and you. Don't go! 

"Grow old along with me, 
The best is yet to be!" 



CHAPTER XIV 

THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
May 6, 1880. 

I have been intending for some time to write to you, 
to tell you what perhaps you have heard, that we are all 
going to Europe next month. We have let our house in 
Cambridge furnished, which enables us to carry out a 
plan Lizzie has long entertained, to go abroad, chiefly on 
Carrie's account. It is a fine opportunity for her, and 
will, we hope, do a great deal towards her completion in 
her art education. . . . 

Dear brother, how I wish I could have come out to see 
you before leaving! I had a vivid dream of you last night, 
that we met, and I cried for joy to embrace you. Well, 
one of these days we may yet meet. . . . Ever and forever 
yours, my dear, dear brother. 

London, July 28, 1880. 
21 Woburn Place, Russell Square. 

It is high time I sent you some word of myself, and 

ourselves, from this side of the ocean. We sailed on the 

9th of June in the Cunarder Algeria, had a short and 

pleasant passage, no rough weather, a very good company 

of fellow- voyagers, no incidents of any note, and arrived 

in Liverpool on the evening of Saturday, the 19th. We 

spent part of Sunday in Liverpool, and then took train 

to Chester, a wonderfully interesting old city, founded 

by the Romans, part of the old wall still to be seen; a fine 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 307 

old mediaeval ruin of a church, and another called the 
Phoenix Tower. There is a fine cathedral, where Carrie 
and I attended a late Sunday service, after which was 
given an organ recital, from a very excellent organ and 
organist, of a part of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. The 
twilight was so long that we had plenty of time to take a 
walk after service, and saw the ruins of St. John's Church. 
The old tower was splendid in the rosy sunset, and we 
heard some delicious bird notes. We stayed here a day 
or two, walked round the old walls of the town, and saw 
the mountains of North Wales, very lovely and dreamy, 
in the distance. The weather was beautiful, with the 
finest of half-cloudy, misty, English skies. We enjoyed 
our ride by rail to London, the kind of landscape be- 
ing all new to us. We are living in "lodgings" — two 
chambers and a large parlor, which is also our dining- 
room. We order what we want, and have our meals 
cooked and served when we like. Landlady very obliging 
and service very good. My room is an upper one, looking 
out on a wide prospect of black backs of houses and an 
infinity of red chimney pots, and some red-tiled roofs. 
But I can't begin to tell you how wonderfully interesting 
this great city is. One might live years here, and never 
see all one wants to see. Lizzie is not able to walk very 
far, but Carrie and I take long walks, and see the streets, 
the galleries, the museums, the parks, and so on. Con- 
siderable riding, too, we have done, by omnibus or 
hansom. Riding is cheap, but cheapness is a snare and 
a temptation. We have seen a little of the British Museum 
which is near us, Westminster Abbey, the House of Lords, 
the Exhibitions, the National Gallery, the outside of Buck- 
ingham Palace, the great parks, the Zoological Gardens, 
and have been to Dulwich, a quiet, shady-laned place 
giving us the first suggestion we have had of the ideal 



S08 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

rural scenery of England. Enjoyed much the pictures in 
the Gallery. 

We went twice to hear M. D. Conway, at his chapel 
in Finsbury, and I was twice at his house at Cheswick, 
Turnham Green, where I met Mr. Froude — the only 
distinguished Englishman I have seen. We took a walk 
about Turnham Green, and saw the house where Hume 
finished his history, and the house where Hogarth lived 
and worked. We all went once to the Lyceum Theatre, 
and saw Irving and Miss Terry, in the "Merchant of 
Venice," a capital piece of acting. There was an excellent 
afterpiece, "Iolanthe," founded on Heine's "King 
Rene's Daughter," in which Miss Terry was especially 
charming. But we have seen very few Americans, and 
sometimes we feel lonely. The only English family we 
have seen is Mrs. Gilchrist's, — they live at Hampstead, 
north of London, on a hill, from which we saw very 
pretty views. Mrs. G. is the widow of the author of 
Blake's biography; we made their acquaintance in New 
York. A few of our American friends have come and 
gone. ... 

Carrie is copying in the National Gallery. There are 
only two days in the week when students are allowed to 
work there; she has made only small sketchy copies so 
far. This gallery is perhaps one of the choicest in Europe. 
It was not in existence when I was here twenty-five years 
ago. 

The other day C. and I went to the Kensington Muse- 
um, walking part of the way across Hyde Park. We went 
into the Indian Department. No one can possibly at- 
tempt a description of the magnificent things we saw 
there, the Oriental carpets, shawls, robes, turbans, silk 
stuffs, of colors to make a painter's eye dance with delight; 
swords, guns, sabres, daggers, horse equipments, how- 




GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 
From an oil sketch by Caroline Amelia Cranch 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 309 

dahs, jewels, rings, bracelets, earrings, photographs of 
Hindoo architecture. But this was only a portion of the 
wonderful things in this Museum. Before I got to the 
picture gallery, my brain was dizzy, and my back ache- 
ing. The British Museum is another wonderful place, 
which we have hardly begun to explore. It seems as if 
London was appropriating all the wonderful and beauti- 
ful things of the world. 

The parks are a remarkable feature of London. They 
cover an immense area. From St. James's Park, which is 
not very far from Westminster Abbey and the Thames, 
you enter Green Park, then Hyde Park, walking through 
miles of green grass and trees, and think you are far 
away in the country instead of the heart of London. 
The common people all throng through these walks, and 
stretch themselves on the grass, and wheel about their 
children every day in the week, including Sundays. I 
don't believe there is anything like it in the world. From 
Woburn Place, where we are, it is about a mile to Re- 
gent's Park, a lovely place, in the Northern portion of 
which are the Zoological Gardens. . . . 

We have an astonishing climate here for dog days. I 
have worn my winter clothes ever since we landed in 
England. We have a good deal of rain, and the London 
air is almost always smoky, but we have very fine days 
too, and it is never hot, in our American way. It is 
neither hot nor cold, but an even temperature, ranging 
between 60° and 70° that makes you forget the weather 
entirely. But one never goes out without an umbrella. 
It may rain at any moment, and rain and sunshine follow 
one another a dozen times during the day. Every gentle- 
man, so 't is said, wears a stove-pipe hat. I vowed for 
two weeks, I would never, no never wear one. But I had 
to give in; add to this, I was obliged to discard my cotton 



310 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

umbrella and buy a slender silk one. Such is the tyranny 
of fashion! 

Here follows a few extracts from Mr. Cranch's 
Journal : — 

N June 25. . . . Went to the Grosvenor Gallery. The pic- 
tures here are better than at the Royal Academy. Some 
fine portraits by Bastien Le Page, Holl, Richmond, and 
others. Terribly disappointed in a big picture by Burne- 
Jones — a troop of young women in dirty white descend- 
ing a spiral staircase, a picture without any motive or 
meaning, and poor and cold in color. The modern Eng- 
lish school men all paint on a high key, and many of them 
without any shadows, in crude and chalky colors. Some 
good water-colors — but not so good as the works of our 
best American water colorists. 

Munkacsy's "Two Families" at the Royal Academy 
is the best picture there — very fine — the dogs and 
children wonderful. . . . 

June SO. Went to National Gallery. A splendid col- 
lection. Fine Gainsboroughs, Reynolds, Hogarths, — 
noble 'specimens of the Venetian school — Paul Veron- 
ese, Titian, Guardi, Canaletto, and many others. Good 
collections of Turners. My brain and back ached with 
seeing so many fine pictures. ... Is it not astounding 
that the modern English Painters, with this noble gallery 
right under their eyes, go on doing such poor work in 
color, and don't seem to derive any benefit from the pre- 
cious treasures of Art, they can study with such full 
opportunities? 

July 17. To Russell Sturgis's, Carlton House Terrace. 
We went by appointment to see his pictures. Magnificent 
house — might be called a palace. He took us all over 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 311 

it. A good many excellent family portraits. There are 
four pictures of mine, painted in Paris — two Niagaras, 
one Venice by moonlight, and a view at Nahant. They 
all look very well. From the balcony or terrace upstairs 
you look over St. James's Park. -* 

Lizzie, Carrie, and I then went and sat awhile in St. 
James's Park. Then Lizzie took a hansom home, and 
Carrie and I took a bus to Hyde Park Corner, where we 
sat for an hour or two looking at the grand carriages go 
by, with their liveried and powdered and wigged coach- 
men and footmen. London is a whole country and king- 
dom squeezed together into a gigantic mass of brick and 
stone, and called a city. 

July 28 The London "Daily News" of July 21 

mentions the death of my dear old friend George Ripley. 
I hear no particulars of his decease. He was of a ripe old 
age, I think near eighty. I had seen him very seldom of 
late years, but I knew him to be always the same kind, 
genial, generous, liberal heart, as in his youth. I have 
felt his loss deeply. I have known him since before the 
"Brook Farm" days — more than forty years. I was 
always " Christopher" to him. He never changed as other 
friends have changed. He was youthful and genial and 
hearty, to the last time I saw him, a little over a year 
ago. 

He is a loss to the country. He was a sound and learned 
scholar, an accurate, profound, and liberal critic, a good 
writer, a deep philosopher, and a steady worker. Per- 
sonally I owe him much for his appreciative notices of 
my works. I shall long remember him affectionately — 
my old true-hearted friend — I shall never forget you! 

August 1. Sunday. Lizzie, Carrie, and I went to morn- 
ing services at the Foundling Hospital Chapel in Guil- 
ford Street. The organ is said to have been given by 



312 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Handel. On each side of it, row upon row, sit on one side 
the boys, on the other the girls, who are all in uniform — 
plain dresses and high white caps. There was a great deal 
of singing and chanting by the children, assisted by the 
organ and choir. It was a very pretty and striking sight. 
The liturgy was conducted by three clergymen. The read- 
ing of the Scriptures was as monotonous as any school- 
boy's. The sermon by a very old man, was dull and com- 
monplace. 

After service we visited the rooms of the establishment, 
saw some interesting pictures, and manuscripts of Sir 
Thomas Coram the founder, and of Handel. Among these 
was a ticket of admission in 1750 to hear a new Oratorio 
called the "Messiah." Gentlemen were requested to at- 
tend "without their swords, and ladies without hoops." 

August 9. By cab to Waterloo Station, and then to 
Hampton Court. Enjoyed much the old Palace with its 
courtyards, and the endless succession of royal rooms 
filled with pictures; also the beautiful grounds, where 
we walked and sat, in the lovely summer weather; after a 
lunch at the Mitre Tavern, came back by the little steam- 
boat, which was crowded and uncomfortable — but we 
enjoyed the scenery of the Thames. Passed under a 
great many bridges, and landed quite late at the West- 
minster Bridge, and home by cab. . . . 

August 10. Walked through the Strand to see the Tem- 
ple — quiet, collegiate-looking old places, shady and still, 
and full of association with celebrated English scholars. 
Saw Dr. Johnson's and Goldsmith's haunts, and the 
Mitre Tavern, and the Dining-Hall of the Benchers, a 
wonderfully rich old room of the Elizabethan time, with 
stained-glass windows, and carved wood, and other sump- 
tuous architectural adornings; and the walls hung with 
blazoned heraldic panels. Went into Temple Church — 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 313 

the Chapel of the Benchers — a superb Gothic structure, 
but gloomy and sepulchral. The dim religious light of it 
is not the light of the future, but of the shuddering and 
sad-eyed past. 

August 11. The first really warm weather, yesterday 
and to-day, though not oppressive, nothing like the heat 
of our American Augusts. 

Mr. Lowes Dickinson, a Royal Academician, had 
called while I was out, and invited us to his house for 
the afternoon. Thither we all went. Had a very agree- 
able visit. Mr. and Mrs. Dickinson are charming people, 
friendly and genial. They have a beautiful house, every- 
thing bright and tasteful; a fine studio, where we saw 
several good portraits and water-color drawings. Looked 
over a fine collection of mezzotint engravings of Sir 
Joshua Reynolds's portraits, had some tea and pleasant 
conversation. Mr. Dickinson has a great admiration for 
William M. Hunt's works. 

August 17. Went with Carrie to the Tower. Visitors 
are admitted in squads of twelve under the charge and 
discipline of a picturesque old Beefeater, who takes them 
rapidly through, stopping occasionally to explain, with 
a peculiar grammar and pronunciation, the chief objects 
of interest — the old armor and weapons, of which there 
are endless specimens; one would like to pause to inspect, 
but no time is allowed. We were taken into the ancient 
White Tower, and up narrow, winding stairs, and saw the 
place where a great number of distinguished persons had 
been confined, and some of their carvings and inscrip- 
tions on the stone walls. . . . We were conducted back 
into the yard — where we waited till other parties had 
got through, when we went up into another castle to 
see the jewels and regalia of royalty ... and at the top 
of all, the magnificent crown of Victoria, blazing with 



314 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

precious stones, which the guide declared was valued at 
one million of pounds sterling. 

The moat, the old dark arches, the traitor's gate, which 
once opened upon the water, and through which the poli- 
tical prisoners were brought into the Tower, were all inter- 
esting. There was a wicked old raven walking about the 
Tower Court, of a most funereal and uncanny aspect, who 
seemed like an incarnation of the bad old past, brought 
so forcibly to mind by all that we saw in these gloomy 
interiors. He was the sort of bird for such a place, just 
such a raven croaked the entrance of Duncan under the 
battlements of Macbeth's Castle. 

Twenty-five years ago I visited the Tower, with Lowell 
and Story, but I don't remember that there was then so 
much to be seen. . . . 

August 18. Called on the Huttons. Went to the Na- 
tional Gallery and saw the collection of Turner's water- 
colors. They are by far the best things he did. No one 
can judge of Turner till he has seen his drawings and 
water-colors. I am struck with his patient and elaborate 
pencilings, of landscape and architecture, full as much 
as with his bold washes of color. His compositions are 
fine. In everything he does in the way of landscape, 
buildings, and boats, he is a master whose power and 
genius are unmistakable. He could do figures, too, if he 
had only chosen to give time to them; animals, too, — 
for I remember an exquisite colored sketch of two swans. 
I don't think he knew how to manage oils with the same 
skill he showed in aquarelle. At least he was very eccen- 
tric in oil-painting. His "Building of Carthage," how- 
ever, is a strong and noble picture, and except that the 
sky seems to have darkened, this picture more than rivals 
the large Claude of the same size that hangs beside it. 
This, and the "Ulysses defying Polyphemus," and the 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 315 

"Apollo slaying the Python," seem to me his finest oil- 
paintings. I also was charmed with the water-colors of 
Peter De Windt, and of Cattermole, in another room 
downstairs. 

To G. W. C. 

This day of summer, many a year ago, 

Our young hearts roved the old world's charms to know. 

We sailed away upon an unknown sea; 

Our ship was winged with hope and fantasy. 

The winds that drove us on, or lightly fanned 

Our cheeks, were airs that breathed from fairyland, j 

The autumn of our lives has come at last, 
The dreams of youth are rose leaves of the past. 
But though that joyous time long since has gone, 
We still, my faithful friend, are sailing on, 
To shores unknown we voyage still together, 
One in our thought, as in that charmed weather. 
Though time our heads has bleached, our faces changed, 
We, from our youth, have never been estranged; 
Our hearts still keep their early summer glow 
As when we sailed the seas long years ago. 
London, August 1, 1880. 

Mr. Cranch to George William Curtis 

Paris, August 31, 1880. 

186 Boulevard Haussmann. 

We were glad to get your letter dated on the day of our 
anniversary, and though I did n't write you a letter the 
same day, I did write the lines aforesaid, whose chief 
merit is that they are written from the heart. 

We enjoyed London much. We were in comfortable 
quarters, and saw a great deal that was exceedingly in- 
teresting, all of which you know, and is it not all written 
in the book of Baedeker? 

We left London about a week ago, and after a few days 
at a hotel near the Seine, we took an apartment for two 
months in this handsome, new street, where we are quite 



316 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

content. We are on the 4 me , a good way upstairs, and 
have a nicely furnished place, and from our balcony we 
look up to the Arc de Triomphe over long rows of young 
trees, and endless processions of carriages. Paris is rather 
deserted as yet, and the weather is warm. ... j 

The city is greatly changed, and everything is dearer. 
The great Boulevards have ploughed up old streets and 
reconstructed them, so that one looks in vain for many 
that I knew seventeen years ago. . . . 

The Journal continues: — 

September 19. This morning May called before break- 
fast, and proposed that I and "one of the young ladies" 
should accompany him to Meudon, to visit his Sieve, 
Miss Thomas — so after breakfast Miss W. and I called 
at his studio for him, and we took the tramway in the 
Avenue Josephine, then the railway, and then an omni- 
bus, to the street where his friends live. We were intro- 
duced to Mrs. Thomas, a Norwegian lady, a widow whose 
husband had been an Englishman, and her two daughters 
and son. The eldest daughter is Mr. May's pupil, a 
charming girl. We had a very pleasant visit, but the rain 
prevented us from walking to the Forest. They live in a 
house where Moliere once dwelt. There is a good deal of 
picturesqueness about the streets of Meudon. May told 
us several stories of his experiences during the siege of 
Paris. He was obliged to leave his apartment in the 
Terres, as the enemy's shells were exploding very near 
him, and in the middle of the night moved to the centre of 
the city. The very next day the house he left was shat- 
tered to pieces by the shells. His concierge had denounced 
him during the Commune as un homme suspecte, saying 
he had two or three apartments and studios in the city, 
so that he was in great danger, for an immense number of 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 317 

hommes suspectes were shot without mercy by the 
Government. He says the gamins would run behind the 
walls, and when a shell burst, would run out and pick up 
the pieces and sell them. May was actively engaged (in 
the Prussian siege and in the siege of the Commune) in 
the ambulance service. 

September 20. Spent most of the day looking at apart- 
ments non meubles. In the afternoon Lizzie and I found 
one with an atelier in the Avenue de Villiers, which may 
suit us, though it is very small. 

Walked down to the Quais, and bought an old edition 
of Pope's "Works," eight small volumes for eight sous a 
volume. Also for ten sous, a little pamphlet, the "Life of 
Franklin," printed in the third year of the old Republic. 
I bought it for Huntington, who is a collector of every- 
thing pertaining to Franklin and Washington. Curiously 
enough, I met him, coming through the Court of the 
Louvre, and showed it to him. He was delighted. 

November 13. In the evening we had a little party, con- 
sisting of Mrs. Lee, of Boston, and her two daughters, 
Lizzie and Hull Adams, Mr. Walter Gay, artist, and 
Messrs. Longfellow and Stewardson, students of archi- 
tecture. We had a very lively and pleasant evening, with 
some singing, and fun. 

November 21. The weather has been cold, windy and 
rainy, for I don't know how long. When we were in Paris 
seventeen years ago, I don't remember any wind. Now 
it has been blowing tremendously, equal to anything our 
side of the Atlantic. But we are very comfortable in our 
little apartment. All last week, when not interrupted, 
I have been painting on my picture for the Artist's Fund, 
which I shall call "Portia's Villa." I have an idea in it, 
and am trying to get it to please me, but as yet have 
succeeded very imperfectly. 



318 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Christmas Day. The first clear day for about a month. 

December 26. This morning I walked down to the 
Louvre, and there waited for Lizzie and Carrie, who 
came, and we all had a good time studying the pictures. 
The light was good, for the day was clear. I never saw 
the great picture of the " Entombment," by Titian, look 
so finely. I am not sure that it is not the greatest picture 
in the gallery. No religious picture I know compares with 
it. It is solemn and tender, and full of humanity. The 
figures are natural, yet noble. The face of the Christ in 
dark shadow is finer than any face of the Saviour I have 
seen. The composition is admirable, the color marvel- 
lous. It dwarfs all the other masterpieces around it. The 
brilliant "Antiope" of Correggio, which hangs near it, is 
a wonderful picture in its way — but it appeals only to 
the senses. The Titian satisfies sense and soul alike. Had 
the master never done any work but this, it would im- 
mortalize him. There are many other fine Titians here, 
but how far above them is this! 

Mr. Cranch to Mrs. Brooks 

Paris, December 30, 1880. 

Your letter of the 11th came yesterday, and has given 
my conscience a gentle nudge, reminding me more em- 
phatically of what I have had in my mind for a long 
time; when owing you a letter. ... I believe I told you 
we had taken new rooms and that Lizzie was going to 
furnish them. 

The apartment is very small, but comfortable. My 
little room is next to the kitchen, which is about the 
smallest specimen of a kitchen that you ever saw. Only 
one person being able to get into it at one time. Our 
cuisiniere is sole monarch of it all day, and tolerates no 
sister or brother near the throne; she goes home at night, 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 319 

so that then is the only time when I care to be in my 
room, — then I have perfect quiet. We have furnished 
neatly and with some taste, and without great expense, 
and expect to take some of our furniture home with us. 
We hired a little upright piano, which is a great comfort 
to me. I spend most of the day in our atelier, which is 
under the skylight on the 5th Stage, where I have painted 
a good deal. I have lately sent to New York my Artist's 
Fund contribution, a picture I call "Portia's Villa." I 
have no orders, but I am painting for the fun of it, and 
enjoy my work just as much as I ever did. Carrie has 
been going every day to Carolus Duran's class of young 
ladies. It is a portrait class, and she works there from 
eight to one; after which she sometimes goes to the 
Louvre to copy. So we get up by candlelight, for these 
are the short days of the year. It is an absurd hour, 
eight o'clock of a winter morning, to begin work, for it 
takes her at least half an hour to get to the class. 
M. Duran comes twice a week, and M. Henner twice. 
Their criticism has been useful, Carrie thinks, but she will 
not continue another month. Carrie thinks the advan- 
tages for art in New York are better than here. But then 
there is no Louvre in New York. 

We have had no real winter yet, but for the month we 
have had incessant rains. . . . This is a new quarter, not 
far from the Pare Monceau, and a quarter where there are 
many distinguished artists. M. Munkacsy's studio is 
quite near us, and we went one day to see it and him, 
and his pictures. And a princely studio it is. But he is 
rich, and married a Princess, they say, though he began 
life as a cabinetmaker. Sarah Bernhardt's hotel is not far 
from us in this avenue. And we are reading a story 
which comes out once every day in the "Temps," the 
scene of which is an atelier in the Avenue de Villiers. So 



320 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

you see the neighborhood is dislingui, but it is somewhat 
remote from the most of the comforts enjoyed by those 
living in the thickest settled parts of Paris. 

There is an enormous amount of building going on 
near us. Whole streets of new and expensive houses. One 
would think Paris one of the richest cities in Europe. 

We don't see many of the Americans here. Our old 
friends Huntington and May are still in their old quarters, 
Babcock is living at Barbizon, but has lately come to 
Paris. Walter Gay, a young artist of talent, is near us. 
All these have dined with us occasionally. A Miss Lesley, 
of Philadelphia, is in Carrie's class. Our cousins, Lizzie 
Adams and Hull, have been here, and we saw them often, 
but they have gone to Nice. There is a young Mr. Long- 
fellow, a student of architecture, a very agreeable and 
clever young man, who has also dined with us, and a 
companion of his, young Stewardson, also studying 
architecture, and formerly a college chum of Heyliger 
De Windt. Mr. Dana, the artist, has returned from 
England; he was one of our friends when we were here 
before. 

Mr. Huntington keeps us supplied with the "Daily 
Tribune," so we get all the American news. And the 
"Temps " — a capital paper — keeps us informed of what 
is going on in Paris and in England. I was much pleased 
to read in it the other day an excellent and very appre- 
ciative article on George Eliot. She was a great genius, 
and there is no English novelist who takes her place. 

i From Mr. Cranch's Journal: — 

December 31. The old year is almost gone. He has only 
one more hour to live by my watch. I am sitting alone by 
the ruins of my evening fire. I have just been reading a 
capital article in the "Temps" by Edward Scherer on 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 321 

Lord Beaconsfield's novel " Endymion." He is the author 
of the article on George Eliot I spoke of. The criticism is 
very profound and just. It is so good that I shall preserve 
it. "Le mot qui a Vair d'une idee 19 is one of his good say- 
ings, applied to Beaconsfield. 

January 30, 1881. Received a note from Madame 
Laugel enclosing a ticket to a Conservatoire Concert this 
afternoon. Got ready in haste to go and was richly re- 
warded for doing so. First came Mendelssohn's magni- 
ficent Symphony in A Major, wonderfully performed, 
and quite enthusiastically received. Second, fragments 
from Spontini's Opera (I presume) of "Fernando 
Cortez," by solo singers and chorus — very striking 
— consisting of introductory choruses; Alvar and the 
Spanish prisoners; Mexican priests and sacrificers; reci- 
tative of the Grand Priest; chorus and barbaric dances; 
march of the Mexicans and general chorus. Third, Con- 
certo in A Minor for piano and orchestra, by Schu- 
mann, the piano part exquisitely played by a little lady, 
Madame Viquier. Several passages called forth sup- 
pressed bursts of feeling from some of the audience. It 
seemed to me one of Schumann's masterpieces. Fourth, 
trio and chorus of the Parques (Hippolyte and Aricie), by 
Rameau. And lastly Beethoven's "Leonore" Overture. 

I enjoyed every note of the music. On my left was a 
little youngish French lady, who fidgeted a good deal 
and used her lorgnette in the midst of the finest passages, 
and on the whole seemed bored, or at least indifferent, 
and yet, as if conscious that she was showing it, would 
suddenly turn towards the orchestra, and make move- 
ments of the body and head, as if she were intensely en- 
joying the music. How I wished Carrie had been there in 
her place, what a pleasure it would have been to both of 
us, to hear such glorious music together. On my right sat 



322 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

a little old lady, who let her head drop, and took several 
good naps. I suppose she enjoyed the concert, in her way. 
At any rate, the music was soothing to her, and she made 
no pretense of ranking herself with the connoisseurs. She 
could n't help being sleepy. But the young woman on my 
left, if the music bored her, ought to have come pre- 
pared to be bored, and showed very bad taste in twisting 
herself about so with her lorgnette in the midst of the 
performance. 

February 13. M. Laugel was so kind as to send me a 
ticket for a box in the Theatre Francais for this evening's 
representation — five seats in the box. We invited Mr. 
Walter Gay to tea and to go with us. After tea we took a 
carriage and went. The box was a quiet, shady little 
nook, exacting no dress, and close to the stage on the rez~ 
de-chaussee. The first piece represented was "Grin- 
goire," a very clever and interesting story of the time of 
Louis XI. The acting was all admirable. Coquelin, who 
took the part of Gringoire, was as good as could be. The 
whole was complete in one act. 

Then came the play of "Jean Baudry," by Vacquerie, in 
four acts, I believe, the part of Baudry by Got. The plot 
was extremely interesting, and the acting as near per- 
fection as anything I ever saw. 

February 2 If. Dined at the Pinchots', and went with 
Mrs. Pinchot (Lizzie, Carrie and I) to the Opera Comique. 
Heard "Les Contes de Hoffmann," Offenbach's posthu- 
mous work. It was very brilliant, and in parts beautiful 
music, with admirable orchestration — quite a new 
rendition of Offenbach's genius. 

February 25. Received note from John Holmes and 
went down to see him at the H6tel France et Lorraine, 
Rue Beaune, the same we stopped at on arriving in Paris. 
Found him lame and disabled from a fall. 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 



323 



February 26. Packing up to go to Italy. Lizzie and 
Carrie bought three of Cook's Tourist Tickets which will 
take us to Turin, Genoa, Pisa, and down to Rome, thence 
to Florence and Venice, available for sixty days from 
Turin. 

Went down to see John Holmes, who is waiting to get 
well, when he intends going to England. He has been 
suffering also from his eyes. He must be terribly lonely, 
in that hotel, knowing no one here. 

March 3, 1881. We left Paris February 28. Dined at 
Dijon. Entered the Mont Cenis Tunnel about 3 a.m. 
Fine mountan scenery, snow on the mountains. Arrived 
at Turin somewhere about nine, March 1. Had an awful 
time at station there, regulating tickets and baggage. 
Started again at half -past nine. Ugly landscape — a 
flat country with endless miles on miles of stumpy trees, 








apparently a kind of poplar, truncated with twigs sprout- 
ing, some of them looking like caterpillars and centipedes 
on end. 

The French landscape with its eternal broomstick 
poplars was ugly enough, but this was dismal. Something 
uncanny and nightmarish about these hideous stumps. 

But the scenery began to be fine as we drew nearer to 
Genoa. Fine mountain views right and left, and pictur- 
esque old buildings. After a day's stay in Genoa, reached 
Rome about noon, March 3. 



324 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

March J^. We went to the Vatican, Sistine Chapel, and 
St. Peter's. The frescoes of Raphael and of Michael 
Angelo appear finer than ever. Raphael's frescoes are 
better in color than his oil-paintings. The Michael An- 
gelos on the ceiling of the Sistine are wonderful. Yet how 
much they lose in that dim, imperfect light. This great 
master must have known, when he was painting these glo- 
rious pictures, that they would never be seen up there as 
they should be seen. I can't help thinking that, when he 
did these works at the command of Pope Julius II, he 
knew and felt how much of their power and beauty would 
be lost. No wonder he rebelled against the task. But 
what a treasure the Pope has through him left to the 
ages! 

March 5. We went to the Rospigliosi, the Capitol, 
Forum, Coliseum, San Pietro in Vinculo, and in the 
afternoon visited Story's studio. Last night I called on 
the Storys at the Barberini, and was most cordially re- 
ceived by Story, and found there Edith and her hus- 
band. 

The afternoon of the day we arrived, I went up on the 
Pincio. The place is more beautiful than ever, and there 
was a band of music, and the same crowds of fashionable 
loungers, the same rolling-by of grand carriages, the same 
splendidly uniformed officers, and contadini and nurses 
and children, and priests, etc., as in the years long gone 
by. And as the music went on, and the people prom- 
enaded up and down under the green palms and pines, the 
vague memories of the old days came over me with a 
saddening sweep. Such impressions seem more painful 
than pleasant. I don't much like these ghosts of the 
buried past. 

And wherever I go in Rome these same vague memories 
are awakened. It is better they should sleep. 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 325 

Sunday, March 6. We went up on the Pincio, and sat 
in the sunshine, among the green ilexes, and heard the 
birds sing. In the afternoon Carrie and I went into the 
garden of the Accademia, the old Medici Villa, and then 
walked in the grounds of the Villa Borghese, and gathered 
purple anemones. 

Monday, March 7. We went to see the Museum of 
the Vatican — the statues. 

March 8. Left Rome at 10.50. Found the railway to 
Florence much better than any Italian track we have 
gone over. Interesting scenery all the way. Arrived in 
Florence at nearly seven o'clock. 

March 10. Boott called, and took me to the American 
Consul, to get a request for a permit for the galleries, for 
Carrie and for me — as American artists. Looked at the 
Loggia di Lanzi, and the statues, and the old Medici 
Palace, and remembered how I carried George — little 
Georgey, who was just beginning to talk, and who under- 
stood only Italian — to see the marble lions, and how he 
was afraid to touch them, when I lifted him up near them, 
and he said, "son vivente? " till I assured him they were 
" di sasso." That was thirty-two years ago. Ah how sad 
it made me to recall it! . . . 

March 12. In the afternoon went to see the studio of 
Miss Boott, and of Mr. Duveneck — Miss Boott has ad- 
vanced greatly under his instruction. Duveneck's work 
was very brilliant. There were other pupils of Duveneck 
also, there, whose work was good. 

March IS. Began an oil sketch looking out across the 
Arno. Boott called, and proposed going to Bellosguardo 
with us. At 3.30 took a carriage with Lizzie and Carrie to 
Bellosguardo — but Carrie and I got out at the Porta 
Romana, waited for Boott and walked up the hill with 
him. Beautiful villa and enchanting view. . . . Rode back 



326 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

in the carriage, and Carrie and I went into the Boboli 
Garden. 

March H* Birthday of the King of Italy. Great firing 
of cannon and ringing of bells. Parade of soldiers. The 
festivities are interrupted by the tragic news of the assas- 
sination of the Emperor of Russia. Those crazy Nihilists 
have at last accomplished their purpose. But what can 
they gain by it? Could there be a worse thing for their 
cause? 

Carrie and I went to see some of the churches, after 
finding the Uffizi Gallery closed. In the evening we all 
went to a little party at Boott's — where we met Mr. 
Ball, the sculptor, his wife, and Miss Anna Dixwell, . . . 
and half a dozen young art students. Had some good 
music from Mr. Ritter's violin with Lizzie Boott's ac- 
companiment and some comic songs. . . . Enjoyed our 
evening very much. 

March 19. The weather has been perfectly cloudless, 
till to-day — and cold. I have been in the Uffizi and the 
Pitti and the Boboli Gardens, and taken a long walk in 
the Cascine, and picked there a few wild flowers. And 
yesterday we went to the San Lorenzo and the Medici 
Chapel to see the Michael Angelos, and in the afternoon 
Carrie and I called at Mr. Ball's studio, and were very 
much pleased with him and his works. I had known noth- 
ing of his work except the equestrian statue of Washing- 
ton in Boston, which always impresses me as remarkably 
good. Here we saw a number of works of a high order, and 
I don't see why he should n't rank among the first of the 
American sculptors. His studio and house are together in 
a pleasant villa overlooking the city, by the Poggio Im- 
perials Boott called while we were there, and we walked 
up the hill by the Viale, and around to San Miniato. 
The views of the mountains and city were perfect. 




FRANCIS BOOTT 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 327 

March 19. In the afternoon went to a large reception 
at Mr. Ball's. There was music, violin and piano, and 
some good singing. My National Anthem to Boott's 
music was well sung by eight voices. 

March 21. In the evening called for Boott and went to 
the Teatro Nuovo with him. The play was A. Dumas 
fils 9 "Princess of Bagdad." I understood very little 
of it, but it was splendidly acted. The star of the piece 
was Signora Tessero-Guidone — a remarkable actress — 
Boott thinks she is as good as Ristori, and I don't know 
that he is not right. Nothing could be finer than her ex- 
pressions of passion and feeling, and her variety — her 
range — was wonderful. All the acting was remarkably 
good. I never saw towering rage so absolutely rendered 
as it was by one of the actors, whose name is given as 
Rosaspina. 

March 26. We have changed our quarters to the Casa 
Guidi, No. 9 Piazza San Felice. A much more cheerful 
place; windows looking to the east and on the street. It 
is the house where the Brownings were; a marble inscrip- 
tion over the front door commemorates it as the house 
where Elizabeth Barrett Browning lived and died — 
placed there by the city of Florence. 

Venice, April 5. Venice seems to me even more won- 
derful for its picturesqueness than it did seventeen years 
ago. There is nothing that is not picturesque here. I 
should like to remain six months, and spend my time in 
sketching. This afternoon began a sketch of the Salute 
and Dogana from my window — the same old subject 
I 've painted so often, but it is good to do it once more 
from the actual scene. The great difficulty in Venice is to 
know what to paint — where all outdoors is picture. 

April 10. We have taken a stately apartment in the 
Palazzo Foscolo, on the Grand Canal. We have four large 



328 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

rooms about seventeen feet high — two of them with 
heavy stone balconies overhanging the Canal — from 
which we have a fine view of the Salute, and Dogana, on 
our left, and palaces on palaces extending as far as we 
can see to the right. Gondolas and other boats are pass- 
ing all the time. We take the rooms by the week. The 
proprietors are two elderly ladies, who call themselves 
"les nobles Foscolo," and descend from one of the doges. 
In a large bare anteroom hang portraits of two of their 
ancestors, veritable magnificoes, one of them with the 
name "Fusculus," and a string of titles in Latin. . . . 
There are two entrances below, one the water-gate, 
which seems never to be used, and the other from the 
Calle Pisani, a narrow alley leading down to the Canal. 
On the outside of the front door is an immense and pic- 
turesque knocker, which no one uses, and on the right 
two old iron bell-handles. The old lady is very particular 
about having the front door bolted at night, and the bolt 
is a curiosity for its huge mediaeval size. The two sisters 
go to bed at eight o'clock, and seem to think no visitor 
ought to ring the bell after that hour. 

The other evening our friend Henry James, Jr., called 
about nine, and had difficulty about getting in. He had 
to stand in the rain outside and ring, and hold a colloquy 
with the servant, from above, who insisted we were not in 
■ — he finally got in and upstairs, as far as our outer door, 
and knocked and rang, but we did not hear, and knew 
nothing of his visit till we found his card in the door next 
morning. 

April 17. Easter Sunday. We all went to the Church of 
San Marco, where there was quite a crowd, and heard 
some pretty good operatic music. This was followed by a 
sermon by a splendidly robed and mitred dignitary who 
seems to have been a bishop, but there was too much re- 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 329 

verberation to hear more than a few words. The beauty 
of this interior of San Marco's is indescribable. It seems 
to me one of the wonders of the world. It is an endless 
delight to gaze about at the shadowy mysterious arches, 
the antique altars and statues and picturesque nooks; 
the gold and mosaics of the domes, everything you see 
arranged in picture shape. This is especially so when the 
sunshine comes in through a door, or window, and 
touches on its high lights. . . . 

April 20. Alexander W. Thayer arrived from Trieste 
before breakfast. He takes a room in our Palazzo. . . . 

April 25. Left Venice — Thayer going with us — for 
Milan. As we got into our gondola, the Foscolo sisters 
bade us a tender adieu. The weather was fine, the first 
good day for some time. Beautiful mountain scenery on 
the way to Milan. . . . 

April 26. Carrie, Thayer, and I went to the top of the 
Cathedral. The architecture is beautiful beyond descrip- 
tion — a vast white marble frost-work of soaring pin- 
nacles all covered with statues and elaborate ornamental 
carvings, shooting into the sky in every direction, and all 
the work upon them finished so as to bear the minutest 
inspection — and all looking as if they had crystallized 
instead of being built up slowly and painfully in the 
course of centuries. We ascended by narrow winding 
steps to the topmost spire, a dizzy height. The view in 
every direction is wonderful ! . . . 

April 27. We all went to see the "Cenacolo," the 
"Last Supper" of Leonardo, in the ancient refectory of 
the Santa Maria delle Grazie. It is very impressive, and 
one cannot judge of it well from the engravings and 
copies. It is very much obliterated, but in better condi- 
tion than I expected to see it. 

We went into the Cathedral, and ascended to the very 



330 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

top. The view of the long line of snow-topped Alps was 
wonderfully fine — on the day before it was misty and 
they were hidden. In the afternoon we left for Paris, 
Thayer remaining. 

May 1 . Varnishing day at the Salon. There was a great 
crowd; and over thirty rooms full of pictures. We 
stayed several hours, and I believe we saw all the rooms. 
A great number of clever pictures — but none of them 
struck me as great pictures, except in size. The same 
kinds of subject are repeated over and over, as they 
used to be when I was here before. There are a great many 
strong and clever painters represented, but none that 
compare with that time. Then we had Troyon, Dela- 
croix, Descamps, Diaz, Ziem, Millet, Rousseau, Dau- 
bigny, and many others of less note, but full as good as 
those here represented. There is plenty of skill and chic, 
and technique, but few new ideas. And we have been in 
Italy among the glorious old masters, which obscures 
these modern Frenchmen. But in so large an exhibi- 
tion, it is impossible, on a first visit, to discriminate and 
criticise with any exactness. . . . 

May 11. Wrote to Frank Boott: "What a curious 
thing, by the way, this matter of popularity is — almost 
a thing of accident often. You happen to hit the mark the 
popular eye has fixed its gaze upon, or you don't happen 
— and then as the popular eye is turned in a certain 
direction, you are believed to go on hitting the mark or 
not hitting it. But in reality what does the public really 
know about us? If its big mechanical lens of an eye hap- 
pens to be turned in another direction, we may go on 
shooting and hitting all our lives, and the sapient news- 
papers and reviews seem to know nothing about it." 

June H. Went a second time to see Munkacsy's 
" Christ before Pilate." It is a great picture, perhaps the 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 331 

greatest picture of the day. It will rank higher than 
Couture's " Decadence." All Paris seems to have been 
to see it. The treatment is entirely fresh and uncon- 
ventional, in subject, composition, color, and general 
technique. The latter quality is wonderful. The picture 
seizes one with a powerful grasp; it is vivid with life and 
expression. The Christ is a man of sorrows and ac- 
quainted with grief, but intense, self-centred, firm. Pilate 
sits on the right on his Roman throne, in white, his hair 
cut close, his face expressing intense thought and delib- 
eration — a group of turbaned Pharisees about him, and 
close to him stands the High Priest who points to Christ, 
appealing in a loud voice to Pilate — "Let him be cruci- 
fied!" And among the mob, at the other end of the pic- 
ture, a vile ruffian throws up his bare arms and screams, 
"Let him be crucified!" Near the Saviour sits an old 
man, turbaned and robed, with his cruel face half averted, 
and here and there are seen other priests and elders de- 
liberating or talking together. From the crowd in the 
background a man rises pointing out Barabbas — who 
is peering around at the face of Christ. A centurion with 
his back to the spectator, holds his long spear across the 
crowd to keep them from pressing too near. The archi- 
tecture of the building is rich and massive, and painted 
with wonderful solidity. The color of the picture is fine 
— low in tone and harmonious, full of warm grayish 
browns and purplish darks — a style peculiar to Mr. 
Munkacsy — varied with strong blues, and all full of 
light. The figures have the relief of nature itself. Seen in 
a mirror in the next room, the picture startles you with 
its intense realism. 

July H. The great National Fete. Miss Anna 
Dixwell lunched and dined with us, and after dinner she, 
Carrie and I took a carriage as far as the Porte Maillot, 



332 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

beyond which carriages were not allowed, and walked in 
the Bois de Boulogne to the Lake, where the Fete Veni- 
tienne, and the fireworks were to be seen. The crowd 
was immense. The trees were hung with large orange- 
colored lanterns. The lake fringed around with foot- 
lights. A great golden gate of light blazed in the distance, 
reflected in the water. The crowd occupied every inch of 
ground near the water. We walked on till we reached the 
pine grove on the left, and spread our camp-stools. At 
nine o'clock the feux d' artifice began, rockets, fiery ser- 
pents, intense red, green, and white fires, blazing on the 
water and bursting in the air. It was a magnificent 
show. Splendidly illuminated, boats passed to and fro 
continually, adding greatly to the fairy-like splendor. 
The crowd was very orderly. About half -past ten we 
left, and walked all the way back — no carriages were 
anywhere allowed. The whole road for miles was splen- 
didly illuminated with lamps and colored lanterns. This 
illumination and fireworks were more extensive and 
splendid than anything I ever saw, and yet we saw only 
a portion of the whole. . . . 

To G. W. C. 

August 1, 181>6 

The day, so long remembered, comes again. 
The years have vanished. On the vessel's deck 
We stand and wave adieux, until a speck 
Our ship appears to friends whose eyes would fain 
Follow our voyage o'er the unknown main. 
Shadows of sails and masts and rigging fleck 
The sunlit ship. The captain's call and beck 
Hurry the cheery sailors as they strain 
The windy sheets; while we in careless mood 
Gaze on the silver clouds and azure sea, 
Filled with old ocean's novel solitude, 
And dreams of that new life of Italy, 
The golden fleece for which we sailed away, 
Whose splendor freshens this memorial day. 
Paris, August 1, 1881. 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 333 

December. Dupont came and took dinner with us, and 
passed the evening, interesting us a good deal with his 
conversation and his songs. Though talking nothing but 
French, he seems totally unlike any Frenchman I ever 
knew. He is large and sound and liberal in his ideas — 
full of bright ideas — artistic, imaginative, refined, and 
withal extremely sympathetic. I always regret that I 
can't express myself in French as I wish I could, in talking 
with him. He sung us some of the old songs he used to 
sing nearly twenty years ago when we were here. Such a 
man as he ought to learn English and talk with us in 
English, but though he knows a little, he never will talk it. 

He is fond of talking about himself, and the things he 
has done in painting, and poetry, and politics — but in 
such a way that he does not impress me as a man un- 
usually vain — only as of one conscious of talent and 
expressing his feeling frankly and without reserve. . . . 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Paris, January 11, 1882. 
... I have been re-reading your letter, and pondering 
over your vision. I don 't suppose you take it any more 
au serieux than I do; I don't think you have any more 
superstition than I have; it was singular certainly. But 
how curious all dreaming is! The only thing about 
dreams that seems tangible and sure, is, to me, that they 
all spring out of our reminiscences, and so belong to the 
past, and not the future. They are broken and distorted 
reflections of images that have had a place in the mind. 
The oddness is the way they surprise us sometimes, and 
the queer complications and exaggerations; and queerer 
and more wonderful than all, the characteristic things 
that are said by the people we know. Another curious 
thing in dreams, is the mixing up of people; one even be- 



334 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

ing quite intimate with some one, whom, when we wake, 
we find we never knew at all. Not long since I tried to put 
into verse this latter phase of dream-life, and will give it 
to you. 

I have met one in the land of sleep 

Who seemed a friend long known and true, 

But when awake from visions deep, 
None such I ever knew. 

Yet one there was in life's young morn, 
Loved me, I thought, as I loved him. 

Slow from that trance I woke forlorn, 
To find his love grown dim. 

He by whose side in dreams I ranged, 
Unknown by name, my friend still seems. 

While he I knew so well, has changed. 
So both were only dreams. 

But this is digressing. I meant to offer myself as a 
Joseph to interpret your vision. For instance, the tomb 
and date may mean that by that time you will have 
buried your last law documents, and entered upon your 
new profession fully and entirely, without any let and 
hindrance; the sunny hills and the sheep beyond are 
symbols of a good time coming for you in your declining 
years. The river to be crossed, you yourself allow to have 
been an after thought. That is beyond the hills. 

We all went to the Theatre Frangais the other night, 
with two young artist friends. We saw "Le Monde ou 
Ton s'ennuie," and a short piece preceding it, called "La 
Cigale chez les fourmis." The acting was admirable, as it 
always is at the Frangais, but the rapidity of the talk was 
too much for me. Things were constantly said which 
made the audience laugh ; to me they were serious things 
because I could n't understand them. The plot contin- 
ually mystified me. But the others enjoyed it. To me this 
theatre was the world where one is bored! I had better 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 335 

have stayed at home and saved eight francs. I can 
read French easily enough and understand it when dis- 
tinctly spoken, if I am near enough to the speaker; that 
is, I don't lose much of it. But I have so little prac- 
tice in hearing it, that I grow rusty, and doubt if I can 
follow the lingo any better than I could twenty years ago. 

The Journal goes on: — 
January H. . . . 

Unseen, unknown, and sundered long, 
Till Age hath touched us with his rust, 

Deep in our hearts, alive and strong, 
Youth springs immortal from the dust. 

Our thoughts like bees in secret hives 
Hoard up their wealth, unshared, untold, 

Yet love, in our divided lives, 
Keeps full his measure as of old. 

Ah, could some voice from heavenly spheres 

Tell us it has not been in vain, 
This absence long, these changing years, 

But, somewhere, we may meet again! 

June J/,. Went to the Salon and studied Puvis de 
Chavannes' immense picture "Ludus pro Patria," and 
find it improves on acquaintance. It is well composed, 
quite original, full of daylight — but it is daylight of an 
alien and almost spectral world. The figures, too, all 
seem as if they belonged to some world of the classic 
Elysian fields. They are all too sad and serious — there 
is nothing of the joyousness of youth and sport. Hardly 
a smile upon a single face. Perhaps the artist intended 
some such shadowy and spectral life, in the dim and sub- 
dued coloring he has given to his picture. M. Puvis de 
Chavannes has received the mSdaille d'honneur. Perhaps 
the jury may be right in decreeing it. But if the picture is 
poetic, it is French poetry. 



336 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

June 16. Went to the Opera to hear "Robert le Diable." 
First time I had been in the Opera House. Had a seat on 
the top row and found it very hot and close. There is 
much that is fine in the music, but Meyerbeer never in- 
terested me much. This opera is too long — too noisy — 
and on the whole I found it tedious. I was too high up to 
see Baudry's pictures on the ceiling — I got a glimpse of 
them from below, but only vaguely. The vestibule and 
stairway are magnificent. The effect of the brilliant crowd 
coming downstairs, surrounded by this superb architec- 
ture, was very splendid and picturesque. 

Mr. Cranch to George William Curtis 

Magnolia, Massachusetts, 
July 24, 1882. 

We found your note here, and were very glad to get 
your friendly salutation. We arrived in Boston the 17th 
and were at Cambridge for a few days. . . . 

We had eight days of rough, rainy, cold weather 
aboard. The Captain says he never saw such weather in 
July. It might have been November. Head winds all the 
way over. But the last three or four days were fair and 
calm. . . . 

For several days I have felt incapable of rising out of 
a purely passive state of mind and body. I fear we shall 
hardly accomplish our proposed visit to Ashfield. At 
least so it seems to us at present. 

P.S. We passed a pleasant week in London, though 
we were too hurried to see much. I accomplished, how- 
ever, on a perfect day, a visit to Windsor, and was de- 
lighted with the place. I made a water-color sketch of 
the magnificent Castle, into which I went to see the show- 
able places. 



THIRD VISIT TO EUROPE 337 

In his Journal at this date he says: "This place 
is the perfection of rest. I have done almost nothing, 
a little sketching, a little reading, a great deal of 
loafing." 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranck 

Ashfield, Massachusetts, 
July 31, 1882. 

I shall be in the cars all day to-morrow so that I cannot 
slap you on the back with my pen and congratulate you 
and Lizzie upon our anniversary. It is thirty-six years 
ago, my young friend, that we sailed o'er the waters blue, 
and if our heads are greyer, our hearts are not, and if 
memory is infinitely richer, hope is no poorer. No man 
who has seen what we have seen has a right to grumble, 
much less despair. 

When you said that you were coming home I hoped 
that we might have drained a beaker of the warm South 
together upon our day. No matter, I shall pass through 
Boston and look toward Magnolia, and waft you and 
yours a blessing. 



CHAPTER XV 

CAMBRIDGE STUDY — LAST YEARS 

My father was much affected by what we call atmos- 
phere. He had the sensitive, poetic temperament in 
an unusual degree. 

He was seen to best advantage in his Cambridge 
study, which also did duty as a studio. Here, with 
soft-tinted walls, an open Franklin grate for cheer, 
his armchair at a convenient angle, his favorite books 
near, and most suggestive studies from Nature, 
a portrait of his friend, William Wetmore Story, by 
May, and his own copy of one of Ziem's Venices, on 
the walls, studies from the Forest of Fontainebleau, 
the little Mont Blanc sunrise that was poetical, and 
photographs of his dear ones on the mantel — he 
was in his best element. 

Quoting from a short poem called "My Studio" 
he expresses his pleasure in its quiet and seclusion: — 

"I love it, yet I hardly can tell why — 
My studio with its window to the sky, 

Far above the noises of the street, 
The rumbling carts, the ceaseless tramp of feet; 

A privacy secure from idle crowds, 
And public only to the flying clouds." 

The study in Ellery Street was a square room, with 
one large window to the north, the floor covered by 
a carpet of brown tint and simple pattern; an old- 
fashioned sofa and deep armchair, with square centre 
table, for his papers, pen and ink. An old mahogany 
bookcase with diamond-shaped glass panes, and deep 
cupboards below, held his books and manuscripts; 



LAST YEARS 339 

an easel or two, with two palettes of his younger 
days, a guitar and a flute, some pipes and a tobacco- 
jar, completed the outfit. 

There was an air of serenity and repose about the 
room. Here he was most at home, and read, in a 
rapt, musical voice, to his wife, daughter, or friend, 
his last poem, essay, or comic rhyme. My father 
was always to me a friend. There was between us 
such close and entire sympathy that it was hardly 
necessary to speak; by some subtle harmony of 
thought and feeling, each divined what cold words 
might only half reveal. 

He was singularly unworldly and childlike in dis- 
position. His generous impulses would carry him 
away, and make him give to those who called forth 
his compassion what he could ill spare himself. My 
mother and I would sometimes reprove him for those 
unsophisticated ways. He always accepted the re- 
buke very mildly, showing how truly sweet and gen- 
tle his nature was. 

As I revered my father, it has seemed to me 
strange, in after life, that I could criticise his lines 
or make suggestions upon themes that were so 
much deeper than I could fathom. He invited criti- 
cism, noting and taking in good part an opinion, 
though opposed to his own. 

He had his moods. These were happy moods and 
dull moods. We speak of being in a "brown study." 
Is there not such a thing as a sky-blue study, a 
golden mood, a russet thought? With the high- 
strung nature of the poet, there are moods that are 
both ambrosia and nectar to him. These states of 
feeling and thought are his greatest inspirations. 
His best poems are written under such conditions, in 



340 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

his half-waking dreams, perhaps. My father's best 
work was done in these bright moods. While the fit 
was on, he used his brush rapidly. The glow would 
sometimes last several days. To such natures there 
come also the corresponding depression and sinking 
of spirits. It seems as if the soul must sometimes put 
on sackcloth and ashes. He had many causes for 
this depression in later life, yet he averred his 
"blues" were constitutional; two thirds physical, 
one part mental. 

At such times music was his comforter. If one 
were to turn to the piano and play the opening 
chords of Mozart's Sonata in C major, or the 
"Adelaide" of Beethoven, or other of his favorites, 
he would take up his flute, play part of the air 
through, and end by letting out his voice to its full 
compass. Then, the dull clouds would break, the 
dark mists and vapors enveloping brain and heart 
would disperse, leaving only pure sunshine and 
clear skies. 

To many persons, my father seemed cold and 
unsympathetic, because they only saw him in his 
dull moods. He was undoubtedly reserved. It is the 
protection which shy natures sheathe themselves 
with, of which Emerson says: "Bashfulness and 
apathy are a tough husk in which a delicate or- 
ganization is protected." Shrinking and modest as 
a woman, he had undoubtedly a most virile mind. 
With congenial spirits he was unreserved, genial, 
sympathetic, to a great degree. Into his study came, 
from time to time, his friends: John Dwight, of 
musical renown; Dr. Frederick Hedge, Mr. John 
Holmes, Mr. Frank Boott, Dr. William James, Mr. 
Samuel Longfellow, Mr. Beckwith, a professor of 



LAST YEARS 341 

literature; Mr. Allen, a minister, and Mr. Stevens, 
his friend and neighbor; John Knowles Paine, com- 
poser and musician; and women — a few. 

He wrote on a scrap of paper, on his knee, seated 
in an old easy-chair, with a pipe in his mouth, 
looking like a prophet of the olden time, with his 
white hair and beard — his gaze far away. 

He had no well-sorted library. He was too much 
on the wing and too unselfish to collect what he 
really wanted. Late in life he expressed a wish for all 
the poets, and his family were supplying this want. 

A pocket edition of Shakespeare of good print, 
I remember, he often carried with him. "A Collec- 
tion of English Songs" of early date was prized 
by all the family. Volumes of some of his friends, 
with autograph signatures, are carefully preserved 
by his family. Numerous French books, an old 
Beaumont and Fletcher, and books running over 
a wide range of subjects, were gathered from his 
travels. Many of Carlyle's, and the "Emerson- 
Carlyle Correspondence," Henry James Senior's 
books, Dr. James's "Psychology," were on his 
shelves. Books scientific, theological, he read and 
enjoyed. His mind, early trained to philosophical 
discussion, kept pace with the thought and higher 
criticism of the day. But it was very far from a com- 
plete library. 

My father's memory was good. He quoted whole 
pages of Shakespeare, Emerson, the "Biglow 
Papers," and read aloud very well. He often read to 
us after dinner in the parlor, while we sewed by the 
lamp. But he would retire to his study with a pipe, 
to pursue some line of thought, or finish his special 
reading. At such times we did not disturb him. 



342 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

His nature was generally serene, except deep 
moods of melancholy that grew as he grew older. 
He had a great sense of humor, which gave his 
friends, as well as himself, much pleasure. 

His study was certainly a most individual room, 
where he was most at home, in his own domain, 
among books, pictures, and his beloved pipes. 

William James to Mr. Cranch 

Cambridge, May 7, 1883. 

I naturally find myself pleased and flattered enough by 
such appreciation as your note expresses. The contents 
of the address was after all nothing but rather a com- 
plicated way of stating the attitude of common sense, 
that by philosophers much-despised entity. It may be 
that much of my intellectual nisus is toward the rein- 
statement of common sense to its rights; at any rate, I 
find myself constantly taking sides with it, against more 
pretentious ways of formulating things. 

I should much like to talk over these matters some- 
times with you, and meanwhile I feel singularly encour- 
aged by your generous words. . . . 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
May 27, 1883. 

Your beautiful little verses are full of music and picture 
— and youth. How far away it seems but how fresh, 
how fair! When you speak of threescore and ten, and I 
remember how steadily and with equal pace I follow you, 
I cannot comprehend it, so much do I feel myself to be 
the same old boy. 

Have you seen the sad, wasted, dying face of Keats in 
the current "Century "? It is much the same as that pub- 



LAST YEARS 343 

lished in the "Correspondence with Fanny Brawne" — 
a cruel book which, like the letters of Mrs. Carlyle, make a 
man ask if nothing is to be sacred in privacy or human 
relations. How little the pathetic head has in common 
with his rich and abounding strain! What a life! What a 
death! Yet I recall perfectly the peace of that bright 
Roman morning when we stood by his grave, the morn- 
ing which dawns again in your pensive lines, and which 
will always shine over his grave. 

AT THE GRAVE OF KEATS 
To G. W. C. 

Long, long ago, in the sweet Roman spring, 

Through the bright morning air we slowly strolled, 

And in the blue heaven heard the skylarks sing 
Above the ruins old. 

Beyond the Forum's crumbling grass-grown piles, 

Through high- walled lanes o'erhung with blossoms white 

That opened on the far Campagna's miles 
Of verdure and of light: — 

Till by the grave of Keats we stood, and found 
A rose — a single rose left blooming there, 

Making more sacred still that hallowed ground, 
And that enchanted air. 

A single rose, whose fading petals drooped, 
And seemed to wait for us to gather them. 

So, kneeling on the humble mound, we stooped 
And plucked it from its stem. 

One rose, and nothing more. We shared its leaves 
Between us, as we shared the thoughts of one 

Called from the field before his unripe sheaves 
Could feel the harvest sun. 

That rose's fragrance is forever fled 

For us, dear friend — but not the Poet's lay. 
He is the rose — deathless among the dead, 
Whose perfume lives to-day. 
May 7, 1883. 



344 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Mr. Cranch to John S. Dwight 

Cambridge, May 13, 1883. 
I greet you on your arrival with me at the Scriptural 
age of threescore and ten — you my junior by two 
months. Can you believe it — we have known each other 
fifty years! The whirligig of time with its ceaseless 
revolution and changes, absences from each other, 
differences of occupation, and so on — has not, I think, 
worn away in the least our old friendship. We were drawn 
together from the first by intellectual sympathies, by our 
studies in the Divinity School; by our tendencies toward 
freer, fresher, more ideal views of literature and life; in 
aspirations of the true, the good and the beautiful; and 
not least, by our common love of music. We were youths 
then — are we older now? Wiser, let us hope — but both 
young at the core of our hearts. 

Cambridge, May 15, 1883. 
Do you remember how mortified poor Mark Twain 
was about that unfortunate speech of his at the "Atlantic 
Monthly" dinner? Well — lam just as mortified about 
the speech I did n't make, but should have made, last 
night in response to your friendly notice of me. Ah, woe 
is me! I could not heave my heart into my tongue. There 
were so many strange faces, and I was unprepared, not 
thinking there was to be any speech-making. To you 
they were all well known — and your felicitous speech 
showed what an advantage that gave you over me. Still, 
as your guest, and old friend, I might have responded, 
even if I did so in a bungling way, which would probably 
have been the case. Ah — there is no gift I so envy at 
such times as the gift of speech. After the occasion goes 
by, how often I think of things I should like to have said. 



LAST YEARS 345 

I have nothing but the esprit d'escalier. Therefore my 
mortification is twofold. 

First, that I did not appear in a better light to the com- 
pany — and 

Second — that I could not transform the public gathering 
into an informal meeting of sympathetic friends, and say 
to you — in their presence what I should like to have said. 

So you have it — vanity, diffidence — sensitiveness 
before strangers, and the misery of not having presence of 
mind enough and natural gift enough, for the right sort 
of speech — all these so reacted upon me, that it was long 
before I could sleep. 

A strange thought came into my head that in some 
future state of existence Time may be abolished; and the 
now and then not be so disjoined that they can't be woven 
— as warp and woof into one act representative of our 
best moments — as I can take up my picture and work 
on it, correcting it and changing it as I like. 

The complex state of mind I here make confession of, 
was only internal discord — after hearing such good 
music, and having such a good social time. 

Edward P. Cranch to his brother 

Cincinnati, September, 2, 1883. 

... I have on hand at the Pottery a quart jug, on which 
I have traced some of your juvenile depravities in art, 
which you have probably forgotten, just to make you 
laugh. I wish I could fill it with some of Father's old 
Madeira, in which Dr. Dick used to make us take Peru- 
vian Bark, in the merry days when we were young on 
the banks of the blue Potomac. 

But I have laughed all my life over these foolish devils. 
I have quite a collection of them. No wine could make 
them better. . . . 



346 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, September 9, 1883. 
And yesterday came the box, safely containing your 
two beautiful pieces of pottery. Mine very quaint and 
pretty, and of a good color, with those foolish, half -for- 




gotten scraps on it, "juvenile depravities in art," you may 
well call them; and your hornet, and the dog trying to 
scratch himself. And Carrie's cologne jug which is rich 
and beautiful. 

Well ! as I can't see you with the bodily eyes, and don't 
know when I shall, I rejoice all the more to have these 
few lines from you, your brotherly affection, and these 
gifts, the work of your own brain and hand. . . . We had 
a pleasant five weeks sojourn at Newport; saw a good 
many old friends and made some new acquaintances. 
. . . We found ourselves involved in a web of social re- 
sponsibilities, with much expenditure of visiting cards 
and general attention to our toilets, the longer we stayed 
there. Everybody there appears rich. The wealth and 
display seem enormous. Fashion, of course, reigns tri- 
umphant, but we kept clear of that. Sam. Coleman, the 







c*c, 



sgIIB!ESSSaii t ^l'"Mu3: 



DRAWING FOR A BOOK OF RHYMES 



LAST YEARS 347 

artist, has established himself there and has built ... a 
gem of a house, the most beautiful and artistic in its in- 
terior decoration of anything I ever saw. He has a royal 
studio in it, of course. But I can't begin to describe his 
house; it is a touch beyond anything in the country, and 
the decorative designs are all his own. . . . 

What you say of my Emerson article tickles my vanity. 
But your love adds a precious seeing to your eye. I wish 
I could think it as good as it seems to you. . . . 

George William Curtis to Mrs. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
October 29, 1883. 

Your note and its enclosure are most welcome and I 
thank you with all my heart. The photograph * shows — 
bating color, of which, of course, there is no hint — one 
of the finest portraits that I ever saw. It is permeated 
through and through with the subject, his aspect, his air, 
his movement, his individuality — so that Anna and 
Lizzie cannot believe that it is not directly from life. It 
is the most satisfactory and charming work, and Carrie 
ought to have all the highest honors of the Academy. 
Give her my love and thanks, which are not academic 
honors ! 

Ah, yes! dear Posthumus, which is Latin for Pearse, we 
are all going down the hill, but on its warm and I hope, 
long, western slope. Next summer we must somehow get 
together while some of our faculties yet remain and 
mumble ancient memories together. 

Mr. Cranch to Mrs. Brooks 

Cambridge, January 31, 1884. 
I have been remarkably well this winter — only a 
slight touch of lumbago some weeks ago. I walk a good 
1 A photograph of Miss Cranch's portrait of her father. 



348 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

deal, do the marketing, cut wood, bring up my coal 
and make my own fire every day, and on the whole I am 
about as lively as an old gentleman of my age can expect 
to be. 

Last Saturday I lectured in Boston to the young ladies' 
Saturday Morning Club, on the "Sonnets of Shake- 
speare." ... I have also dined with the Harvard Musical 
Association at their annual dinner, John D wight presiding. 
Dwight's portrait, which has been purchased for the 
Association by subscription, was unveiled on this occa- 
sion. I was called on for a speech and forgot to allude to 
the portrait; but made up for it by reading a couple of 
sonnets on "Music" and "Poetry." Carrie's health was 
proposed and drunk, all the guests standing. She has 
been greatly complimented about this portrait; I think it 
as good as mine. . . . 

Mr. Cranch says in a letter to Mrs. Scott, Decem- 
ber 16, 1884 : "To-night I am to read the part of Bot- 
tom at the Shakespeare Club. The meeting is at 
Dr. Asa Gray's. I shall take great pleasure in doing 
it, and shall make a hit and show them how the part 
should be done. ... I have just discovered a young 
poet here, who addressed an excellent sonnet to me, 
and is one of my admirers. He seems a very in- 
telligent and gentlemanly young man and is taking 
a course of literature under Professor Child." 

Beholding thee, O poet; one mild night 

Beside thy casement, where the autumn rain 
In sadness whispered to thee through the pane, 

Mourning the death of days of calm delight, 

I marvelled what sweet song thou didst indite 
To art or nature, in what lofty strain 
Thou didst invoke old myths, what fine refrain 

Trembled upon thy lips as poised for flight. 



LAST YEARS 349 

Whate'er the poems, — joyous as the Morn 

That treads, bright-sandalled, on the hills of earth, 

Grave as the nunlike Eve with brow forlorn, 
And lips unblessed by any smile of mirth, 

Within my heart that hour this wish was born, 
That mine had been the brain that gave it birth! 

Clinton Scollard. 

Mr. Cranch to Rev. Charles T. Brooks 

October 29, 1882. 
Great is the power of circumstance. Time and space 
stand between old friends, strong almost as death itself. 
You and I have been divided for a lifetime, and yet there 
are memories that often bring you to my thoughts, — 
not to speak of our old Divinity School companionship. 
What brings you very near to me is, that you were the 
most appreciative admirer of my " Satan," a little book 
that, though well spoken of by the press at the time of 
publication, literally fell dead in the public estimation, 
and was absolutely without a sale. But I can't help think- 
ing it was in some respects, as you intimated in your kind 
and flattering notice in the "Boston Advertiser," my 
best poem. Now, as I have in petto a project of putting 
out ere long another volume of poems, I wish to give this 
one another chance. And I have been re- writing or rather 
correcting and filling it out, having interwoven in places 
where it was needed, several lyrics and choruses, which 
give it more completeness; and I can't help flattering my- 
self that I have greatly improved it. But the name has 
been objected to. The critics said it is a "calamitous 
title." I as yet have not been able to hit upon a better. 
I wish I could, and I wish you could help me. How hard 
it is sometimes to baptize the progeny of our brains! 
You with your fine scholarship may be able to hit upon a 
name for me. Do think it over, and give me some sug- 
gestions. What do you think of "Ormuzd and Ahri- 



350 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

man"? It must be some name suggestive of the conflict 
between good and evil. . . . 

To Oliver Wendell Holmes 

Cambridge, February % 1885. 

I meant ere this to have either written to you or called 
upon you, to say how much I have enjoyed your " Life of 
Emerson." I am delighted at your just and cordial 
appreciation of him. For one, as you know, I have been 
from the first among his enthusiastic admirers, and can 
well remember how, for years I felt a call to defend him 
against the Philistines. The "Divinity School Address" 
was of course the greatest rock thrown into the theo- 
logical current, dividing the conservatives from the so- 
called transcendentalist movement. And we all know 
how long the two streams ran and tumbled and frothed 
divergently. And some of us are old enough to note how 
different their later blending and confluence is, from those 
days of turbulent division. 

When I remember the impression this great prose lyric 
of the "New Views" made on some of the leading theo- 
logians of the liberal faith . . . and then call to mind the 
quiet evening, a few years since, when I heard Emerson 
read an essay at Dr. C. C. Everett's house, being es- 
pecially invited by the Dean to meet the Divinity stu- 
dents, — I feel that I have lived from the beginning to 
the end of a wonderful revolution in thought. 

You have treated your subject with great skill, bril- 
liancy and justice. Others have doubtless said this be- 
fore, but it is a satisfaction to me to add my humble 
testimony to the distinguished merits of your book, for 
which, and for the exceeding pleasure I have had in read- 
ing it, I must again thank you. 



LAST YEARS 351 

To his brother Edward 

Cambridge, March 3, 1885. 

. . . How do you feel about Inauguration Day to- 
morrow? I have never said a word to you on politics since 
Cleveland's election — I heard that you went for Blaine 
much to my regret. The country was saved from a great 
danger when he was set aside, but it was a close contest. 
Blaine would have perpetuated, nobody knows how long, 
the old wretched spoils system — the curse of our coun- 
try — and put back Civil Service Reform, and would have 
given a sanction to all the rottenness and corruption 
which the foes of this reform are answerable for. I am 
sure that now the country has a safe leader. I don't care 
if he has the name Democrat. . . . Cleveland will at least 
give us a clean government. One of the best signs of it is 
that all the tag-rag of the Democratic Party join the de- 
posed spoils-system men in howling at his heels. There 
will be a tremendous pressure upon him as of upper and 
nether millstones, and they will try to grind him to 
powder, and in more ways than one he will be in imminent 
danger from the Bourbons. But I think he will be a 
match for them all. He will be besieged and squeezed 
worse than any President ever was . . . but enough of 
politics. 

A friend, by the way, gave us season tickets for the 
Boston concerts which we consider a great boon. At 
the last concert they gave the Seventh Symphony of 
Beethoven. I never heard it so splendidly rendered. 
Gericke is the best conductor we have ever had. 

I think I never enjoyed Beethoven more intensely than 
last Saturday night. I had forgotten this symphony was 
so wonderfully great. It suggested such forms of beauty 
and of life — of deep, grand sadness and exuberant joy — 
all the vicissitudes and abrupt transitions of life — all its 



352 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

melancholy, its effort, its triumph. The wonderful and 
original and masterly working up of its simple themes is 
heart-stirring. It is as if Shakespeare and Milton and 
Dante were melted into one. There is deep under deep 
of mysterious beauty, of feeling beyond the power of 
words — "Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear." 

Have you seen any of the newspaper controversy about 
Margaret Fuller? All occasioned by the publication of 
Hawthorne's Life by his son, who was rash and foolish 
enough to publish parts of his father's diary in which this 
noble woman is vilified. Mr. Julian Hawthorne under- 
took the defense of his father's judgment of her in the 
papers, and followed it up with unnecessary animosity. 
Among other respondents I wrote for the "Boston 
Transcript" twice in Margaret's defence, and Lizzie 
added a short cracker o f her own. Emelyn Story has 
written a letter full of amazed indignation. I think by 
this time young Hawthorne has his quietus, for he sees 
that public opinion is against him. Last night I was at a 
meeting of a Cambridge Club where Colonel T. W. Hig- 
ginson gave an admirable lecture on her life, and Rev. 
Dr. Hedge added some reminiscences of his own. ... 

Cambridge, March 29, 1885. 
Going to the post-office this Sunday morning through 
the snowdrifts, I was charmed by getting your good long 
letter. Your transition from the weather to politics 
amused me. I think this is the first time we ever dis- 
agreed about anything, and if it were now before the 
presidential election instead of long after, I might be 
tempted to write a voluminous epistle on this subject. 
I think you must have read only on one side during the 
campaign. I could have sent you no end of testimony 
against the demoralized Republican Party, but especially 



LAST YEARS 353 

against their corrupt candidate. We may be trying an 
experiment in putting in a Democrat, but it was high 
time there should be a change. On one question, at any 
rate, that of Civil Service Reform, we have taken it out 
of the hands of leaders who were wedded to the old spoils 
system. Much as I disliked the Democratic Party, I 
could see that the Republican Party had forgotten its 
own splendid past record, and had declined upon a lower 

range of principle It was something quite other than 

party predominance that the country needed. Could a 
new party have been formed, it would have been what we 
wanted; but the time was not ripe for it. . . . 

But I won't write any more on politics. Cleveland is in, 

and starts with a fair record If Cleveland lives he 

will do a noble work for the purity of the Civil Service. 
And I don't see why in most other matters of political im- 
portance, he will not come up to the mark along with the 
best of our Presidents. The old Democratic issues are 
dead. We could not revive them if we would, and it is 
idle to let ourselves be haunted by their ghosts. 

Washington, March 4, 1886. 
. . . This great city of Washington. I was not pre- 
pared for such an immense evolution. I had heard of its 
transformation into a beautiful city, but it is much be- 
yond anything I imagined; and the extent of it, — the 
immense area which I remember as field and common and 
slashes, — all built up with fine houses and superb 
asphalt pavements, and churches and public buildings, 
reaching in every direction as far as one can see, with 
monuments and statues and parks! I wander about in a 
state of amazement which only increases every day. I 
think I am the original Rip Van Winkle. One afternoon 
I made a pilgrimage to find the old house on Capitol 



354 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Hill. The buildings were so thick about it, and the ground 
had been so graded away, that I was uncertain at first 
whether it was the identical old place. But finally felt 
sure. I rang at the door, and asked if Judge Cranch did 
not live there once. They did n't know, but said the 
house was very old and used to be called the Whitney 
House. But as soon as I peeped in and saw the entry and 
rooms, I knew I was not mistaken. It was occupied as a 
boarding-house, and the old garden is turned into a 
marble yard. The neighboring houses, where the Diggs, 
the Watkins, and the Brents lived, still stood, but looking 
very forlorn. I wrote to Margie to know where the house 
was in which Father died, and she tells me it does not 
exist; it was near the old Carroll place, but a Catholic 
institution has been built on the site of it. I never saw 
that house, for we were then in Europe, but it was there 
that Rufus and Sister Lizzie also died. 

Just below the Capitol Pennsylvania Avenue looks 
unchanged. There are the same little houses and tobacco- 
shops and drinking-houses, and general rowdy aspect; 
but everywhere else, Washington, compared to what it 
was when we were boys, is the evolution of the ape into 
the man. . . . 

I have not been in Washington before since 1863. 

To Mrs. Scott 

Cambridge, November 13, 1886. 
... I have had very pleasant occupation this summer 
and fall in correcting and revising the proofs of my new 
volume of poems, which will be published this month. . . . 
I look upon my new poems as the best and maturest work 
I have done in verse. And I live in hope to see some justice 
done to that work by the critics, and a more popular 
reception by the public. My " Satan" goes into my new 



LAST YEARS 355 

volume much enlarged and improved, and under the 
new title "Ormuzd and Ahriman." I have hopes it will 
command more attention than it has under the old name. 

We had a great day in Cambridge last Monday 1 — you 
will have seen the accounts in the papers — at Sanders 
Theatre, where Mr. Lowell delivered his fine address, 
and Dr. Holmes his poem. The seats reserved for ladies 
had all been long taken, so Mamma and Carrie had no 
chance. But I went in, with my Divinty School badge, 
walking in the procession and finding an excellent seat. 
Lowell's address was very fine; Holmes's poem was a 
failure. Both are to appear, I hear, in the next " Atlantic 
Monthly." 

The President was received with immense enthusiasm. 
I had a good view of him, though not very near. . . . 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
December 2, 1886. 

I was in town last night, and this morning I came home 

and found your new book upon my table. It is the first 

day of winter, clear, cold, — an icy gale blowing without, 

and I sit by the bright fire within turning the page and 

reading and musing, your songs leading me on — 

"Their echo will not pass away 
I hear you singing, singing." 

That poem holds me with the spell of the Lorelei. One 
such song proves the singer. 

Then how beautiful and tender are the sonnets. In 
your first slight volume which I have, I remember also 
the sonnets and how they enchanted me. But this last 
sheaf has your golden grain, and I shall say so aloud. It 

1 Celebration of the two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the 
foundation of Harvard University. 



356 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

is curious that the same mail brought me a copy of the 
autobiographic sketches to 1850 of Georgiana Bruce, 
whom you must remember at Brook Farm, and in the 
Brook Farm chapters there is mention of you as I re- 
member you when I first saw you with your guitar at 
the Eyrie, singing old songs. . . . 

Francis Boott to Mr. Cranch 

Bellosguardo, Florence, 
February 19, 1887. 

I received your letter not long since of 13th January, 
and also your Xmas present: your new volume of poems, 
which I have read with a great deal of pleasure, and have 
shared this too with others. Among these is Miss Wool- 
son, who was attracted by your song of the "Brown 
Eyes," * having known but little of your writings. She 
has lately returned your volume I lent her, and I take 
pleasure in enclosing her note. si sic omnesl you'll 
say. 

Certainly, as you say, Stedman owes you amends, and 
he seems tardy in making it (or them). A critic ought 
never to be blamed if he follows his own judgment; but 
if, as it appears, the omission comes from carelessness or 
forgetfulness, he can't make too much haste in trying his 
remedies. I fancy it is with him as you say — he echoes 
the voice of the world, and ignores the public duty of the 
critic and what should be his supreme pleasure, viz., dis- 
covering the unseen gems and hidden flowers, and telling 
the stupid world what it ought to admire. 

Thanks from both of us for your congratulations. 
Lizzie has really got a splendid baby, and you may take 
my word for it, for I am not specially a baby-fancier. . . . 

1 Mr. Cranch's poem, "Soft Brown Smiling Eyes," the music of 
which Mr. Boott wrote. 



LAST YEARS 357 

Constance Fenimore Woolson to Mr. Boott 

. . . Cranch's poems I have greatly enjoyed. I admire 
all; but I have a particular admiration for Ariel's song 
— "I have built me a magical ship" — in "Ariel and 
Caliban." And for the first and second sonnets — "The 
Summer goes" — and "Parted by time and space." I 
had already seen "Old and Young" — which was sent to 
me from the United States, marked, some time ago. "In 
Venice" is an exquisite picture of the most exquisite 
city in the world, and would give me a heart-ache if I 
were reading it in America instead of here. But very 
American, and very beautiful, are the two sonnets, 
"August" and "Idle Hours," and they, in their turn, 
made me a little homesick for the home-scenes described 
so truthfully and sweetly. Last of all comes "A Poet's 
Soliloquy," which is touching and beautiful in a supreme 
degree. 

Mr. Cranch to Miss Dixwell 

April 10, 1888. 

Your letter just received telling me the sad news of Mrs. 
Duveneck's death, has been a great shock to me. It will 
take me long to realize it, so totally unexpected is it, and 
so ignorant am I of any of the attending circumstances; 
and to her husband, and to her father, what a blow! Mrs. 
Cranch feels it just as I do, and we hardly dare communi- 
cate the sad intelligence to our daughter, who knew and 
loved her so well. 

I knew Lizzie when she was almost an infant, in 
Florence and in Paris, and I have known for many years 
how completely bound up in the life of her father she 
was. He is one of my oldest and truest friends — and 
under this strange and sudden visitation of calamity no 
words I can utter can give any idea of what I feel for him. 



358 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Life can never be to him what it has been, for his future 
pathway in this world will be darkened by a shadow that 
will never be lifted from his heart. 

How useless are words in speaking of such a bereave- 
ment! 

She, as we all know, was so good and so gracious — so 
accomplished and so full of talent, and so true an artist. 
How hard that her brilliant career should be so brief. 
How hard that so few years should have been allotted 
for her married and maternal life, — and how her many 
friends will miss her! 

If there be recognition of friends in the after-life — as 
there must be — else the whole order of creation is a 
mockery — then are she and your dear sister Anna, 
whose death I deeply felt — forever united — as they 
were on earth. ... 

To his brother Edward 

New York, October 28, 1888. 

I send you the flute duet, a little trifle, done many years 
ago; and also a variation made a long, long time ago, 
when my flute was in a livelier condition. I have a port- 
folio full of little things I have tried to compose at times; 
some merely airs; and some, songs with words, and at- 
tempts at harmonization of the same. If ever I get out 
West, I will bring some of them, and let Emma pro- 
nounce whether they are worth anything or not. But 
one thing I am sure of, that if I had been taught the 
piano, and had studied harmony, I should have been a 
composer. . . . 

To Mrs. Scott 

New York, January 23, 1889. 

. . . We all dined the other day at Professor W. C. 

Russell's, who is living in a flat in our street, not far off. 



LAST YEARS 359 

After dinner I amused them and the little boy with my 
usual repertoire of imitations of noises and ventriloquism; 
and they tried to interest us in the game of poker, which, 
I am sorry to say, we failed to appreciate. I told them 
the story of the man in the West, who, on being urged to 
play poker, excused himself because he had n't his re- 
volver with him. Our only evening game at home is the 
old-fashioned backgammon, which Mamma and I take 
up generally for an hour or two in the evening. . . . 

You can't tell how I pine for our books and my pictures 
and studies left behind, and boxed up in Cambridge. 
But we have no room for them here. If we could get a 
studio within reasonable distance, we might send for 
them. I work away at something or other in my little 
room at home. I shall have three large water-color 
pictures in the exhibition which will soon open at the 
Academy, and now and then I exhibit a painting at the 
Century Club's monthly meetings. I have just had ac- 
cepted by "Scribner's Magazine" two stanzas with an 
illustration I made, which I will copy for you, — that is, 
the poem. The editor of "Scribner's" is Mr. E. L. Bur- 
lingame, the son of our old friend, the Minister to China, 
whom we used to know in Paris, — a very pleasant 
gentleman. . . . 

THE BIRDS AND THE WIRES 

Perched on the breeze-blown wires the careless birds 
Whose chattering notes tell all the wit they own, 

Know not the passage of the electric words 

Throbbing beneath their feet from zone to zone. 

So, while mysterious spheres enfold us round, 
Though to life's tingling chords we press so near, 

Our souls sit deaf to truth's diviner sound. 

Ourselves — no Nature's wondrous voice we hear. 



360 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Francis Boott to Mr. Cranch 

Cambridge, December 13, [1888.] 
I am glad you are comfortably situated at New York 
and doubt not you will find it better for you than Boston, 
and a fortiori Cambridge. I find Duveneck and all his 
artist friends are of that opinion. Indeed those of his 
former pupils settled there think it offers better oppor- 
tunities for an American than Europe. Duveneck went 
on there not long ago with some idea of staying. But he 
has a studio in Boston, and a baby too. I wish you could 
see the little gentleman. ... I suppose you take great 
interest in your grandchildren. But I can't help feeling 
the interest in them becomes very different as they get 
older. Two years is a model age, every day develops new 
traits, new acquisitions. It is sad to fancy him a big fellow 
of six feet or more, which he will be if he lives. Of course 
there is interest even for such, but how different. . . . 
Let me see your song, and try my hand at it, provided 
you don't get any satisfactory arrangement. Perhaps 
you will become a composer in the next world. 

Mr. Cranch to Francis Boott 

January 24, 1889. 
"Ne sutor ultra crepidam" is a wise old saw, no doubt, 
and not inapplicable to some things I attempt to do. 
If I have the impulse sometimes to weave aesthetic, airy 
robes for kings and queens, when I should be working at 
my cobbler's stool, I have no other excuse than an occa- 
sional, natural inclination, which should never, however, 
be indulged, when I have n't even entered the apprentice- 
ship of the craft. My poor little attempt at melody 
submits humbly to the judgment of experts. And I am 
taught not to assume airs unless I can show good reason 
for them. I have given you a good deal of trouble about 



LAST YEARS 361 

this deformed child of mine for whom no clothing can be 
found to make him a gentleman. Ca ne vaut pas la peine ! 
Indeed I had almost forgotten its existence. Let it go 
among the shades, and we will try to stick to our last in 
future. But I must thank you for the trouble you have 
taken about this unnecessary bantling. 

George William Curtis to Mr. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
June 23, 1889. 

I am very glad that you enjoy the Motley letters which 
have really introduced Motley to his countrymen and 
shown them how easy it is to misconceive a personality. 
He was always considered a doubtful American, but he 
was in fact one of the best types of true Americanism. 
In the March "Harper" I had an article upon him to an- 
nounce the Letters, in which I alluded to this quality. 
The other day I received a large and beautiful sil- 
ver bowl from Lady Harcourt and her sisters, suitably 
inscribed, which is a very pleasant memorial of the 
work. Holmes was the natural editor, but he said that 
he was too old and he proposed that I should under- 
take it. . . . 

The knee relaxes gradually but surely. I do not walk 
normally, but I walk, and that makes me gay. I am 
sorry to hear of your blue streaks, but they, I am sure, 
are only summer vapors. If you have not decided where 
to go for the summer, I should think this heat would 
make the vision of the ocean irresistible. I long for that 
even among the pleasant hills. 



362 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Mr. Cranch to Mrs. Scott 

Asbury Park, New Jersey, July 20, 1889. 
Chronicles of the Land of Nod 
Chap, xiii 

1. And it was the season of summer in the Land of 
Manhattan. And it waxed exceeding hot. 

2. And they that had nothing to do sat in their rock- 
ing chairs and read the papers, or consulted the ther- 
mometer. 

3. And many longed to get out of the city and seek the 
sea, but they could not. 

4. And there was a man of Manhattan who was a 
painter, and he left the city with his family by steamboat 
and railroad to the Jersey shore. 

5. And they came to a place called Asbury Park. 

6. How be it, it was not a park, but a flat and sandy 
tract of land with small spindling trees. And there was 
nothing to paint. 

7. And they came to a house called the "Magnolia." 
And there they fell among the Baptists. 

8. Yet were they exceeding kind folk, and were not of 
the class called "Hard-Shell." 

9. And they were people who drank no wine. 

10. And their dinner hour was about the sixth hour, 
when European people sit down to their first meal. 

11. And they ate fast, and went and sat on the front 
porch. And there they talked of the weather and of the 
Baptist Church. 

12. But sometimes the youths and young maidens 
played a game called "croquet," with loud talking and 
laughing. 

13. And lo, there was among them a Baptist doctor of 
divinity, who wore unclerical garments, and rode upon a 



LAST YEARS 363 

bicycle. And there was no one who gain-sayed him, or 
thought that he did that which was unseemly. 

14. And this man from Manhattan, whose name was 
Christopher, talked on the porch with some of the 
Baptists. But they did not try to convert him. 

15. And on week days some of the younger folks went 
down to the seaside, where there was a great crowd, and 
dipped themselves in the roaring waves. 

16. And on the Lord's day they went to the churches. 

17. And the heat was exceedingly fierce. And there 
was laziness and languor in the air. It was a land, where, 
as certain of our poets have said, it seemed always after- 
noon. 

18. And some of them spent much time in sleep. And 
those who did not sleep sat continually on the front porch, 
and talked of the weather. 

19. And they who took afternoon naps said perpet- 
ually, "Blessed be the man who invented sleep." 

20. And when they awoke from their slumbers they 
said, "Lo, this is the Land of Nod, of which the Prophets 
of old did speak." Selah. 

. . . We have been here about a week. As you see by 
foregoing chronicle, it is exceedingly hot weather. But 
we are in a very comfortable house. . . . But it is n't like 
the New England seacoast air. It is a sleepy place, and 
it is an effort to do anything. It is also a curious place, — 
a large town, spread out with pretty houses and wide 
streets, plenty of shops, and electric lights, and electric 
cars. . . . There is fine surf -bathing, though too much of 
a crowd. . . . 



364 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

To his brother Edward 

Cambridge, October 28, 1889. 

I am glad you like the Quincy poem. 1 I took a great 
deal of pleasure in writing it, and in delivering it. It was 
listened to attentively, and is spoken of well by my 
friends. But I think you exaggerate some things a little. 
The ground I had to work on was hardly "rough and 
rocky," but rather an oft-travelled highway; the difficulty 
was in making such a trite theme as the Puritan Fathers 
fresh and poetical. Perhaps that is what you meant. 
Neither was the audience, I think "severe," at least my 
Quincy meeting-house audience, — I can't answer for that 
outside reached by the Press. Nor was the fact of its be- 
ing published entire anything specially emphasizing the 
poem. The occasion was an interesting one, and the 
"Herald" laid itself out to appropriate what would make 
the best show. In fact it was put into type before it was 
delivered. 

The poem will be published in the church exercises in 
pamphlet form. And then Mead, one of the editors of a 
new magazine, "The New England Magazine," wrote to 
me asking if he might print it in his publication. I 
assented, of course, it having already become public 
property by being printed in the "Herald." The whole 
thing was of course "a labor of love," as the ministers 
say; all the gold I get being whatever golden opinions 
may happen — along with yours. 

October 30. Interruptions will occur. We are settled 
very comfortably in our old Cambridge home, and I 
should like to stay here. I have my cosey study, my little 
adjoining bedroom, my books and manuscripts about 
me, my pleasant outlook from the windows, with the sun- 

1 A poem read by Mr. Cranch at the celebration of the two hundred 
and fiftieth anniversary of the First Church of Quincy, Massachusetts. 



LAST YEARS 365 

shine and the falling October leaves, and the quiet — so 
different from Newport. I revel in the space and elbow 
room of a house; we were absurdly cramped for room in 
our New York flat. There are some great conveniences in 
a flat, but great limitations too. I should like to stay 
here, and end my days here, since we can't afford to take 
a house in Newport. But wife and daughter, especially 
the latter, like the idea of trying a New York boarding- 
house again for a while. . . . But we shall be here at any 
rate till January. . . . 

How I should like to talk with you about your Euro- 
pean experiences. How wonderfully you and Emma got 
through with your tour. 1 

Cambridge, January 1, 1890. 
... I thank God to-day for you, my dear brother, and 
that I have heard from you at last. But I don't blame 
you for not writing oftener, with your lame hand, and 
your work to do. You have a hard life compared with 
mine, and are a little, not much, farther down the slippery 
slope of life, where we can't stand quite so erect and spry 
and acrobatic as once. It is a matter of great curiosity to 
me to think what we two old gentlemen, and all the rest of 
the old gentlemen and ladies we know, are coming to, 
at the end of our slide downhill. I must confess to terribly 
agnostic views about it all. I try not to think of it; I try 
to believe there may be a waking into another state. But 
whether there be or not, what can we do about it ? I pre- 
sume whatever will be, will be for the best. Our good old 
brother John would be shocked if I ever should say this 
to him. To his facile faith the going out of life is only like 
stepping from a train to a platform — and an eternal home. 

1 Mr. Edward Cranch, who was in his eighty-first year, had lately 
returned from his first visit to Europe. 



366 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Are you buckling to the Buckle? No, I can't say I have 
read him, but a long while ago, in Paris, I borrowed him 
of a friend, and dipped into him, and was much interested. 
But he is a theorist, and believes the world has advanced 
through Intellect alone. But Intellect is only one of 
several factors in the world's growth. You ask what is 
the greatest book now. I really don't know. I only see 
here and there smaller lines of light in what seems to me 
the right direction. We have some clever philosophic 
minds in New England, perhaps as good as anywhere. 
And while I think of it, let me strongly recommend you 
(if I have n't already) to a remarkable article by Dr. 
William James, son of Henry James, and Professor of 
Philosophy here in Harvard — on Spencer's "Definition 
of Mind." 

But I 'm not much of an explorer in philosophical books. 
I have been dipping into a French translation of Von 
Hartmann's " Philosophy of the Unconscious." I did so, 
because I had written an essay on the unconscious life, 
which I have read once or twice before small audiences. 
I did n't see Hartmann's till I had written my essay. He 
goes too much into philosophy and endless details of the 
relations of the unconscious to organic life, for me. I 
found that I agreed with him in many things, but I failed 
to get any particular light from him on the Mind, on 
Faith, or on any deep things of the Spheres. We have a 
Sunday Afternoon Club in Cambridge, where we meet 
at one another's houses, and have an essay and conversa- 
tion. We have run it a year and a half. We have had 
some strong men read for us — Dr. Hedge, Dr. C. C. 
Everett, J. W. Allen, and a good many others. Now and 
then I have taken my turn. We find these meetings very 
edifying. . . . 



LAST YEARS 367 

Cambridge, January 14, 1890. 

Your appreciation of my verses "warms the cockles 
of my heart" (what are the heart's cockles, by the way!). 
But you know you are not in the position of an unbiased 
critic — "Love adds a precious seeing to the eye." I 
wish all my small and select circle of readers could put on 
your spectacles and see the beauties that you do. . . . 

That is excellent and striking which you say about the 
conflict of forces constituting all life. Is this thought 
original with you, or partly so? It is good and memorable, 
and accords with my views — "By this conflict Evil be- 
comes not good, but the necessary condition of it." In my 
"Ormuzd and Ahriman" I tried to express something 
like it — but vaguely. Your formula is more exact and 
scientific. 

"Without resistance Force itself ceases — force with 
nothing to act on being unthinkable and non-existent." 
"Life a play of action and reaction and kept up by oppos- 
ing forces." This is good — and all that follows. I clap 
my hands and throw you an invisible bouquet. 

By the way, I have just given in the proof of my essay 
on the "Unconscious Life," which I think you have seen, 
to Rev. Joseph H. Allen, the Editor of the "Unitarian 
Review." It will probably appear in the next number — 
and I will send it to you. Mr. Allen writes me very 
complimentarily about it: "I have just left your paper 
with the printer — with gratitude and delight that you 
give me the privilege of printing it. It is like a fresh 
breeze out of the golden days when the world was young 
— to us I mean — and reads like one of the clearest and 
pleasantest of the voices that belonged to that time, be- 
fore Carlyle became surly, or Emerson had gone upon the 
shelf. How is it that we have known so little of you in 
your prose?" 



368 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

This — from a scholar and thinker like Allen — ought 
to cheer up an old man who sees his audiences fading 
away around him. I told him I valued his praise as an 
incentive to better work. . . . 

Mr. Cranch was asked to speak at the Browning 
Memorial Service held in King's Chapel, Boston, on 
January 28. He was very glad to respond, and his 
address is pleasantly remembered by his hearers, 
both the reminiscences of the man and his well- 
considered appreciation of the poet. 1 

In contradistinction, a letter from Mr. Edward 
Cranch to his brother, written about this time, vig- 
orously expresses what a good many feel in reading 
Browning. 

Like Alcmene, in giving birth to Hercules, he was 
racked by immortal throes, and could but yell. People a 
thousand miles off could tell something was the matter 
with him — but, like the Delphic Oracle, he lacked the 
power of expressing what it was. And when he was most 
in earnest he was least communicative. Whether this 
lack of perspicuity resulted from indifference or his na- 
tural buoyancy of spirit, bouncing over ditches and 
fences like a kangaroo, — calling dogs to come along, and 
raising a cloud of dust behind him. — One says lo! here, 
and one says lo! there, but where Browning is, or what 
he is after, is beyond any human comprehension to say — 
like a flea, etc. 

If there is anything that baffles and angers me, and 
bungs my eye, it is a want of downright, honest, stark 

1 In conversation at this time Mr. Cranch told this little anecdote: 
"One day, it was in Paris, I asked Browning what was the Good 
News they brought from Ghent to Aix. 'Well,' he answered, 'you 
know about it as much as I do.' " , 



LAST YEARS 369 

naked perspicuity of style, and this has excluded me for- 
ever from the charmed circle of Browning worshippers, 
and left me with the mark of Cain on my forehead. 

But Browning is no charlatan. He is a good honest 
man — or thinker — who has been sent for some useful 
purpose. He may have been sent to Vassar to punish 
young ladies for blubbering over their Miltons and Vir- 
gils, — or to Yale and Harvard to make the established 
classics seem easier, — or to Boston to fill vacant places 
left by the clergy, — or to the Chatauqua circle as an 
endless comfort, or subject of debate. 

But joking apart, — I can see that this tough Browning 
has fought his way to the front, and struck a magnifi- 
cent path in the direction of reflective poetry of the future, 
and I don't want to see that glorious current set back. 

I never understood Wagner till I went to Baireuth and 
I don't expect to ever understand all of Browning. 

Mr. Cranch to George William Curtis 

Cambridge, May 9, 1890. 
We all thank you for sending us the tissue paper por- 
trait of yours from the drawing of Mr. Cummin, and here 
don't let me forget to acknowledge the photograph you 
sent some time ago, done, I think in Philadelphia. It is 
difficult to say just where Mr. Cummin's drawing fails in 
being altogether satisfactory. It is like and yet not like. 
We all think he has missed giving the character and vital- 
ity of the face. It has a more worried look than I often 
see in you. But I am a difficult critic as regards your face, 
which I have known so well and so long, and I dare say 
the drawing will seem much better to some who don't 
know you so well. But as the mobility of your features 
has so often defied the photographer, I don't much 
wonder that it baffles the artist too. 



370 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

. This unlikeness of one photograph of you to another, 
and the unlikeness of all of them to the original, is always 
an inexplicable thing to me. I wish you would keep your 
collection of these essays and show them to the portrait 
painters. Did Mr. Cummin see them? They would make 
a most unique collection. 1 

I don't think I ever told you of my birthday celebra- 
tion in March. My friend Mrs. Stearns had given me a 
bottle of Spanish wine — Xeres — which she declared 
was over a hundred years old. I immediately wrote a 
sonnet to the donor, and told her I should keep the 
flask, unopened until some rare occasion. So, as my 
birthday was coming, I invited three old cronies, two of 
them born the same year with myself and one a year 
older, viz.: John S. Dwight, Frank Boott, and John 
Holmes, to come around in the evening, to the opening of 
the wonderful old wine. They all came, and Lizzie trotted 
out some of the old family silver, and presided at the 
table. In the centre appeared the wonderful wine, still in 
its old straw sheath. Then, by way of grace, I read them 
my sonnet, and with all due reverence uncorked the 
reverend flask, not knowing but it might have lost all its 
original virtue. But we all looked at each other, and I 
suppose smacked our lips. The old sherry was just per- 
fect; a trifle dry, but such a bouquet! As a fit accompani- 
ment to this melody, we had some delicious crackers and 
cheese, and we all thought nothing could be sweeter. 

After this we adjourned — we four old fellows — to my 
study, where we finished off the evening with punch, 
cigars, and quips and cranks, and wreathed smiles, and 
all went off with decent sobriety, not one mistaking 
another's umbrella or overshoes for his own. Boott 

1 Mr. Curtis kept a collection of these photographs of himself. One, 
I remember, was marked underneath, "A Idiot." 




GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS 



LAST YEARS 371 

actually soared into verse, and wrote some lines ad- 
dressed to me on this memorable night! 
(j have been sitting to Duveneck for my portrait, a 
success, I think. ) • • I am quite busy preparing my 
Autobiography, not for publication, but for my children 
and grandchildren, as a family record. 

Mr. Cranch wrote this to the hermit thrush, which 
is heard morning and evening on Gerrish Island. 
He was staying at the Hotel Pocahontas before he 
made his visit to the new house. Quoting from the 
"Log at Brawboat," he says: — 

"Nothing can exceed the beauty and variety of the 
views in every direction. At the Pocahontas ... the 
view of the open sea and lonely rocks is impressive but 
monotonous. . . . Here, the various indentations of the 
coast with the rising and falling of the tide — the ship- 
ping — the houses in the distance — the pond — the 
dark fir woods — the rocks, give a most agreeable com- 
bination of solitude and human life." 

"Oh, will you, will you?" sings the thrush 

Deep in his shady cover. 
"Oh, will you, will you, live with me, 

And be my friend and lover? 

""With woodland scents and sounds all day, 
And music we will fill you; 
For concerts we will charge no fee. 
Oh, will you, will you, will you?" 

Dear hidden bird, full oft I've heard 

Your pleasant invitation, 
And searched for you amid your boughs 

With fruitless observation. 

Too near and yet too far you seem 

For mortals to discover. 
You call me, yet I cannot come, 

And am your hopeless lover. 



372 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

Like all that is too sweet and fair, 

I never can come near you. 
Your songs fill all the summer air — 

I only sit and hear you. 

Gerrish Island, July 11, 1890. 

0. B. Frothingham to Mr. Cranch 

Boston, November 16, 1890. 

Your Sonnets to O. B. F. in your last volume touched 
me deeply. Would the subject were worthy of them! 
Such recognition is more than reward enough. There is 
real satisfaction to one who has flung abroad so many 
seeds that have perished because they had no right to 
live, that some have lodged in a poetic soul and brought 
forth such fruit. 

Your lines on "Old Age" in "Scribner's" for October 
too were most pathetic. They brought tears to my eyes, 
I accept the greeting, I entertain the trust. The hope 
grows sweeter and dearer as the shadows gather. 

I should have been to see you long ago if I had been 
able; but mine has been a miserable Autumn. Pain and 
weakness have kept me in town and have greatly circum- 
scribed my walking in the city. . . . 

Mr. Cranch to his brother Edward 

Cambridge, December 28, 1890. 
I usually go to church, but this morning wife and 
daughter take my place, and I perform the secular duty 
of going to the P. O., and behold I am rewarded with your 
letter written Xmas Day. . . . Your letter makes brighter 
to me even this bright sunshiny day. But I don't like that 
picture of you I see sitting on Christmas Day over your 
fire, with your little black-and-tan for company, and all 
the family away, and the snow coming down and the 
wind howling, and you covering up your fire and turning 



LAST YEARS 373 

in — all alone in your house. I wait with some anxiety to 
hear they have returned. Your account of your street- 
car experiences is all in your best vein. But the idea of an 
old gentleman past eighty being suffered by his wife and 
daughter to perambulate the winter streets and vex his 
soul out buying Xmas presents, is not to be tolerated. 

I leave most of this business to my wife, who in spite of 
her bodily infirmities manages somehow, with her im- 
mense nervous energy, and her maternal and grand- 
maternal yearnings, to get to Boston and buy a great 
box of presents. ... I have, however, done a little shop- 
ping for this Xmas. But it is a dreadful business, unless 
you begin early in the season, taking Time by the fore- 
lock — or as the Portuguese phrasebook has it, " Taking 
the occasion for the hairs." I made several attempts to get 
to the counters in several shops where there were Christ- 
mas cards; but it is n't very easy to carry on negotiations 
in stationery and pictures over the heads of men and 
women, especially women, who, when they get to the 
counter, somehow seem stuck there by invisible glue. 
The fact is we are overdoing Christmas more and more 
every year. It used to be a children's festival. Now we 
must give to old as well as young. Happy are we that it 
comes but once a year. 

Your letter makes me long to have a good long talk 
with you. Yes, let me have that submerged essay you are 
half tempted to write. Do write all your fingers are capa- 
ble of doing, the more the better; serious or gay. What 
lots of things there are we could talk about! The fact is 
there is no knowing where to begin or where to end, 
things crowd so into my head I want to talk over v/ith 
you. And this stiff pen and cold white paper are not 
exactly the most favorable mediums for communication. 
There are fifty openings into fifty topics, all leading into 



374 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

some chambers of thought and feeling common to us 
both ! But where to begin? By the way, what a clever and 
wise sentence is that of yours, " Doctrinism is like a bad 
champagne cork; it keeps the liquor, but lets the aroma 
escape." It is just so. Men may make celestial maps of 
the heavens, but the heavens can never be prisoned in 
diagrams and definitions. That which exists at the centre 
of things touches us at the circumference, in every core 
and avenue of feeling, if we are only alive. But it is not to 
be adequately described; not to be packed into a system 
or a creed. 

How can we measure this boundless element in which 
we are drifting (yet not drifting I hope, except to some 
great terminus, some haven) ? And yet we have intima- 
tions that come to us, we don't know always how, of great 
realities that are dateless, measureless. We have glimpses 
— too few, alas, and too crowded — of a great Light. We 
have perfumes from hidden gardens; snatches of music 
from unseen orchestras; electric thrillings from abiding 
centres, somewhere; inspirations from something far 
above us, yet in some sense in us. 

But this is rather of the essay style, and to confess, is 
borrowed from an essay which I should like to read to you, 
on the " Evolution of the Moral Ideal." In it I have been 
tempted to have a little fling here and there, at the doc- 
trines of F. E. Abbot. Have you read his book, 
"Scientific Theism," and his other book, "The Way out 
of Agnosticism"? Abbott thinks he has introduced revo- 
lutionary methods into philosophy. He applies the 
scientific method to everything; even to proving the exist- 
ence of God. He has a patented private scaling-ladder, 
and gets in where angels fear to tread, and makes God as 
palpable and plain to our intellectual grasp and compre- 
hension as the material atmosphere. But I can't help 



LAST YEARS 375 

saying here, if we can prove and comprehend thus the 
Infinite Soul of the Universe, why, we may as well carry 
him in our pockets, as a South-Sea Islander might do his 
idol! . . . 

A deeply interesting book I have partly read — it was 
borrowed, and had to be returned — is Dr. Martineau's 
new volume, the " Basis of Authority in Religion." I had 
never read anything of Martineau's before; was greatly 
impressed with this. He is profound and radical, and yet, 
in the true sense, conservative, and is a wonderful master 
of style. I think I shall have to buy the book. 

And now I wish you would (when you feel able) sit 
down and tell me about your " important discoveries/' 
I have no doubt they may be new to me, for I am the 
greatest ignoramus in much that a Harvard professor 
might insist upon, in the line of philosophic thought. And 
then, sometimes, I feel like dodging this whole matter of 
questions and cross-questions, and falling back on a plain 
level of common sense, taking refuge from the flying mis- 
siles, in the holes and crevices of unquestioning faith, in a 
few undiscovered places. 

Well, here I am essay- writing, or pretty near it; and 
there are Lizzie and Carrie — I hear them — just got 
home from church — much pleased with the preaching 
and the music. But I think I have been to church too, 
with my dear brother. . . . 

Uncle Edward's Golden Wedding, when the 
house at Walnut Hills, Cincinnati, was in holiday 
array, was a very great event for my father, his 
dearly loved brother. My father came from his 
quiet study in Cambridge, to meet here, in his own 
home, that intimate brother, surrounded by his 
family, his wife, children, and grandchildren, by 



376 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

nieces and nephews and old friends. It was a beau- 
tiful day, — April 15, — already warm in Ohio. The 
house was festive with yellow roses in profusion. 
The guests came with their love and friendship to 
congratulate this young-old pair of lovers. Dear 
Uncle Edward was like a young bridegroom. His 
partner had a light in her face as she greeted her 
friends and presided over this remarkable occasion. 
Youthful she was in spite of her white hair. 

The presents ranged from golden champagne, 
golden ducats, to a pretty little gold brooch of two 
hearts together. I noticed a pair of dainty gold slip- 
pers for this dear old Cinderella. There was a painted 
plate with a poem of my father's upon it. 

The two brothers met the day before the great 
occasion, and afterwards my father stayed on for a 
little visit at the Walnut Hills home. There they 
renewed their youth by long talks, walks, and duets 
on their flutes. 

George William Curtis to Mr, Cranch 

Ashfield, August 1, 1891. 

Our day pf memory dawns again. Here on my book 
shelf is the little bark canoe on which is the name of the 
ship and the immortal date, which Carrie carved, and 
five years ago filled the canoe with flowers. 

I came over from Albany three weeks ago, tired out 
and with a headache a month old. I have done as little as 
I could since I have been here, but a little, as you may 
be aware, is not much! Sometime ago I promised the 
Harpers to make a little book of pieces from the Easy 
Chair. The task has been very great for so very small a 
result. 

Forty-five years ago on the glad waters of the dark 



LAST YEARS 377 

blue sea we had other thoughts than book-making and it 
is curious how all to-day the thought of that day of em- 
barkation has filled my mind. My only trouble has been 
that I cannot recall the name of our darky steward who 
brought the gruel and the glass of sherry. My recollection 
is blended of sherry, darky, gruel, and "Home fare thee 
well." My lady of the gold ear hoops and her buxom 
children with their expansive sable nurse, are very visi- 
ble in my memory. 

And where are you all and how are you? When we 
parted at the South Ferry I hoped that I should see you 
while you were still at Yonkers but this has been really 
the busiest year of my life and many of my most blooming 
grapes turned out to be sour. . . . Tell Lizzie that I hope 
her native Hudson air has restored to her the health she 
used to have, and that this day reminds her of that old 
love of mine which is always in the most vigorous health. 

Mr. Cranch to Mrs. Scott 

Cambridge, August 23, 1891. 

We left Lexington yesterday, a little sooner than we 
expected. There were a good many discomforts there, and 
we are glad to get back to our home. The weather has 
been very hot, and I don't know when I have been so 
used up as I was yesterday, with fatigue, heat and illness. 

One of our greatest annoyances at the Hotel in Lex- 
ington was the locomotives, for we were close to the rail- 
road station. I never should have taken rooms there, had 
I thought of that beforehand. Two or three times a day, 
besides the hourly passage of the trains, there would be a 
freight train that kept coming and pretending to go, and 
then coming back again, with tremendous explosions of 
steam; often in the middle of the night we had it, within 
a stone's throw of our windows, which we were obliged to 



378 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

leave open on account of the heat. I used to lie awake 
and swear internally. I christened the place "The 
Devil's Kitchen." Sometimes the "Old Boy" seemed to 
be frying fish half the night. On the cool nights it was n't 
so bad. Then we had musical classes who kept up a con- 
stant thrumming and singing in the great hall, and the 
service was very ineffective in various ways. But we 
found some pleasant people, and a gem of an old doctor, 
Dr. S., a friendly and sympathetic gentleman, who re- 
membered hearing me preach about fifty years ago in 
Dr. Furness's pulpit! And I was much pleased that he 
should have remembered one sermon, in which he says 
I foreshadowed Darwin's doctrine of Evolution. I have 
a rather vague remembrance of it, but I lost the Manu- 
script. I suppose it was among the papers and books 
burnt up in the Old Homestead fire in 1857, while we were 
in Paris. Besides my books I must have lost many valu- 
able letters and some manuscripts that were worth pre- 
serving. 

To his brother Edward 

Cambridge, September 5, 1891. 
I am very glad to hear from Margie that you are with 
her and enjoying the change of scene and the sea-air. 
Before you go back to the West, Lizzie and I want you to 
make us a little visit in Cambridge, say, in ten days or a 
fortnight from now, when the household wheels run a 
little more smoothly. I have not been at all well, more 
or less, for some time, and this week the horrid dyspepsia 
is complicated with other symptoms. I have no appetite 
and no strength and no energy and no ambition. For the 
last few days I have lived chiefly on tea and toast and 
milk, and keep to my armchair and Dickens, for want of 
a better story-teller. 



LAST YEARS 379 

If I am well enough, I shall try to run down to "B raw- 
boat" (the name of N.'s house at Gerrish Island) for a 
few days. ... I hope you will come to us. 

Boston, December 9, 1891. 
Your letter is just received. I am sitting up in my easy- 
chair, and had a quiet day yesterday and a quiet night. 
I have suffered less pain lately, owing to the caution in 
my food. ... I have lost all my strength and it is only 
with an extreme and sudden effort that I can move from 
place to place. Dressing and undressing is an absurd labor 
for me. But I generally have quiet nights, contriving to 
patch out the long hours with successive light naps and 
usually pleasant dreams. My wife and daughter are in- 
valuable nurses. We are going back to Cambridge to- 
morrow, with new servants who promise well. . . .We 
have been very comfortable here, but shall be glad to be 
again at home. I think I ' ve not been out of my room for 
a fortnight. 

Edward P. Cranch to his brother 

Cincinnati, January 9, 1892. 

It is with deep concern that I hear, through sister 
Margie, of your prolonged illness and pain and weakness. 
I am grieved to be so far away from you, and so little in a 
condition to be of aid and comfort. But I am thankful 
that you have good nursing and attendance, and I hope 
the doctor will at last bring you through and restore you 
to health. 

I must not fatigue you with letters, but I want you to 
know that we are thinking continually of you with deep 
sympathy and praying for your recovery. 

May God bless you and sustain you and bring you to 
health again, is the sincere prayer of your brother. 



380 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

George William Curtis to Mrs. Scott 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
January 15, 1892. 

I had heard from Mrs. Brooks, so that your letter did 
not surprise me, although it is long since I have felt so 
deep a pain. All that you say is in harmony with his 
pure and gentle and noble life, and I can only hope with 
you that when the end shall come, it may be as peaceful 
as you describe his days. 

It is fifty years since I first knew your father, and in all 
that time there has been no kind of break in our regard. 
How many of my happiest recollections are associated 
with him and your mother! and how long now seems the 
vista through which I look back to the earlier days ! . . . 

My daughter and I are fighting the grippe. My move- 
ments are therefore very uncertain, but you will give my 
old and constant love to your dear father — a love 
blended with pride to have been the friend of a man who 
has never broken faith with himself, and has walked 
always with sublime faith the upward way. 

Your mother knows my feeling for her, and indeed, for 
all of you, and with the warmest sympathy and affection, 

I am 

Your friend always. 

Mr. Cranch's health began to fail in the last part 
of the year 1889. He had then what he thought 
was dyspepsia. It was the beginning of a deep- 
seated trouble. He could not eat what he was 
accustomed to. He wrote funny letters to his 
brother Edward and to his friend Mrs. Stearns. He 
made pictures of the "grasshopper burden" at 
which his friends laughed. His muscular strength 
held out to the last day of his life. His elder daugh- 






i 
t 




oo 






LAST YEARS 381 

ter was summoned from the West, to take care of 
him. 

Mr. Samuel Longfellow found him bright and 
hopeful about the outlook. 1 A piano was brought 
into the house and Mr. Paine played the beautiful 
classical music he loved. His face was then trans- 
figured, and he listened with an exalted look that 
was long after remembered. His friend Mr. Boott 
came and talked with him. The elder two grandsons 
came to see him from their school, remaining quietly 
in his room, caring for his fire or his medicine. He 
gazed intently into their faces, seeming to see their 
future life and getting encouragement therefrom. 

The end came peacefully, like a child going to 
sleep, the morning of January 20, 1892. 



George William Curtis to Mrs. Cranch 

West New Brighton, Staten Island, 
January 20, 1892. 

N.'s telegram has come, and I am very sorry that I am 
not in a condition to leave home, and I must say else- 
where what I have to say of the pure and noble and 
gentle soul that is gone. As I told N., it is just fifty years 
since I knew him first, and I always treasure the recollec- 
tion of the charm of aspect and manner, and of the ex- 
quisite temperament. Fresh and unwasted to the end 
was the bloom of youth that lay upon his soul, and I shall 
always hear that mellow voice and feel my pulse beating 
with that faithful heart. 

1 Mrs. Stearns, in a letter to Mrs. Scott, said: "My old friend, Mr. 
Longfellow, wrote to me the 21st — 'Yes, Cranch is gone. On Sunday 
he told me, in a few words, of his outlook of faith into the life beyond. 
It was the sunset that he had painted.' This sunset reveals your 
father's life and faith.'* 



382 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

My dear Lizzie, there are no words for consolation, and 
I can but vaguely conceive what the pang must be. The 
loss of a dear child I have known, but not this more in- 
timate and desolating sorrow. Once, long ago, he spoke 
to me of the end, but with perfect trust in the divine 
benignity of the eternal laws. Upon no human soul were 
they ever more legibly written than upon his, and for all 
who loved him, his memory will be joy and peace. 

Edward P. Cranch to Mrs. Scott 

Cincinnati, February 8, 1892. 

I thank you most kindly for the tender care you have 
taken to inform me of the particulars of your dear 
father's last moments on this earth. It was a grief to me 
that my own disabilities, my extreme old age, and the 
inclemencies of the winter, prevented me from being once 
more with him in December. 

He was very dear to me from childhood, and his memory 
will be precious to me while I live. During our almost 
lifelong absence we kept up a most affectionate personal 
correspondence, and his letters helped to instruct and 
soothe me through all the vicissitudes of life. It is not 
without tears of the tenderest love that I can even think 
of him or speak of him to you, his loving and thoughtful 
child, his kind nurse in sickness. My heart is full, and yet 
I can say no more at present, except to share my sym- 
pathies and sorrows with his family, his wife and daugh- 
ters, his two good sisters, and others who knew and loved 
him. My own best thought now is thankfulness to God, 
who granted me for three quarters of a century, the life 
and brotherly love of so noble a man! And oh, it is my 
comfort to think that if there is in nature a warrant for 
the aspirations of the human soul, he is now among the 
blest in that brighter world of his poetic dreams! And 



LAST YEARS 383 

oh, that I were worthy to hope that in some capacity I 
could again be within hail of that dear brother, that good 
and patient spirit! 

Your dear father was four years younger than myself, 
and I have no right to expect to survive him long. The 
decrepitude of age is stealing my strength and brain, 
but if there is anything I could do to perpetuate his ex- 
ample and his memory on the earth I would gladly 
do it. 

Soon after Mr. Cranch's death, Mr. Curtis in his 
"Easy Chair" 1 paid his last tribute to his old 
friend: — 

The Easy Chair first saw Christopher Cranch one 
evening at Brook Farm, when the Arcadian company was 
gathered in the little parlor of the Eyry, the brown 
cottage which was the scene of its social pleasures. He 
was then nearly thirty years old, a man of pictur- 
esquely handsome aspect, the curling brown hair cluster- 
ing around the fine brow, and the refined and delicate 
features lighted with sympathetic pleasure. He seated 
himself presently at the piano, upon which he opened a 
manuscript book of music, and imperfectly struck the 
chords of an accompaniment to a song which was wholly 
new and striking, which he sang in a rich, reedy, barytone 
voice, and with deep musical feeling. There was an ex- 
clamation of pleasure and inquiry as he ended, and he 
said that it was called the "Serenade," and was composed 
by a German named Schubert. He had transcribed it 
into his book from the copy of a friend. 

Thus at the same time the Easy Chair made the ac- 
quaintance of Cranch and Schubert. The singer was still 
a preacher, but was about leaving the pulpit. He was 

1 Harper's Magazine, April, 1892. 



384 CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH 

already a disciple of Transcendentalism, the far-reaching 
spiritual revival and impulses of that time. 

Cranch followed the leading of his temperament and 
talent in becoming an artist. He was, indeed, an artist in 
various kinds. The diamond which the good genius 
brought to his cradle, it broke into many parts. He was 
poet, painter, musician, student, with a supplement of 
amusing social gifts, and chief of all was the freshness of 
spirit which kept him always young. The artistic tempera- 
ment is one of moods, and Cranch was often silent and 
depressed. But it is a temperament which is also resili- 
ent, and recovers its cheerfulness as a sky of April shines 
through the scattering clouds. Sometimes in later years, 
when the future which, seen from a studio, is often far 
from smiling, he came to the room of a friend, and there, 
before a kindly fire, with a pipe of the "good creature," 
and with talk that ranged like a humming-bird through 
the garden, the vapors vanished, and the future, seen 
from another point of view, smiled and beckoned. 

For fifty years his life was nomadic. He was much in 
Europe, living chiefly in Rome and Paris, with excursions; 
and in America his centre was New York, even although 
toward the close of his life his home, where he died, was in 
Cambridge. His heart was disputed by painting and 
poetry. He painted and sang. The early bent of his mind, 
which carried him into the pulpit, held him to religious 
interests and reading, and while he published poetry and 
translated the iEneid, he wrote grave papers, and in his 
"Satan," and other poems, dealt with ethical principles 
and religious speculation. His nature was singularly 
childlike and sensitive, and he was wholly in accord with 
what was really the earnest and advancing spirit of his 
time. Doubtless he desired a larger public recognition 



LAST YEARS 385 

than he found, and he saw, but without repining, that 
others appeared to pass him in that uncertain competi- 
tion where the prizes seem often to be awarded by a fickle 
goddess. 

But no such perception chilled his work or daunted his 
hope. When he was threescore and ten, his form was still 
lithe and erect, his step elastic, and, in a friendly circle, 
his manner was as buoyant as ever. The diffidence of 
youth still remained, and made his age more winning. 
Nature in all its aspects did not lose its charm for him, 
and although in later years he painted little, his interest 
in books, in society, and good-fellowship never flagged. 
He was of that choice band who are always true to the 
ideals of youth, and whose hearts are the citadels which 
conquering time assails in vain. It was a long and lovely 
life, and if great fame be denied, not less a beautiful 
memory remains. It was a life gentle and pure and good, 
and as living hearts recall its sun and shade, they uncon- 
sciously murmur the words of Mrs. Browning, "perplexed 
music." 



THE END 



INDEX 



INDEX 



Abbot, Francis Ellingwood, 374. 

Adams, Abigail, 73, 74. 

Adams, John, 8, 12, 13. 

Adams, John Quincy, 9, 10, 72. 

Alboni, Marietta, 163, 164, 166. 

Alden, Henry M., 294. 

Allen, Rev. Joseph H., 367. 

Alpine horn, 206, 207. 

Alps, the, 203-07. 

Amalfi, 145, 147, 148; a sink of filth, 

146. 
American mind, the, 219. 
Andersen, Hans Christian, 221. 
Angelo, Michael, 115, 151, 152, 324. 
Ariel and Caliban, 294. 
Art, in America, 183. 
Asbury Park, 362, 363. 
Atlantic dinner, to Whittier, 298. 
Avalanches, 207. 

Babel, the confusion of, interpreted by 

Lowell, 216. 
Ball, Thomas, 326, 327. 
Ballet, disliked by Cranch, 151, 152. 
Barberini Palace, 234, 238. 
Barbizon, 223-28. 
Bartolini, Lorenzo, 152. 
Benzon, Edward, 189. 
Berlin, 132; music in, 249, 250. 
Bigelow, John, letter to Cranch, 295. 
Bird and the Bell, The, 156, 157, 159- 

61, 291 n. 
Birds and the Wires, The, 359, 360. 
Blaine, James G., 351. 
Blue Grotto, the, in Capri, 143. 
"Bomba" (Ferdinand II of Naples), 

141. 
Boott, Francis, 151, 188, 287, 294, 325, 

330, 370, 381; letters from, 356, 360; 

letter to, 360. 
Boston, 47, 48, 77. 
Boston Radical Club, 291 n. 
Brook Farm, 52. 
Brooks, Rev. Charles T., letter to, 349. 



Brooks, Mrs. Erastus, letters to, 37, 
39, 244, 282, 318, 347. See also 
Cranch, Margaret. 

Brownell, Frank T., 271. 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 156, 
157; son born in Florence, 162; letter 
to, 157; letters from, 158, 159, 197. 

Browning, Robert, friendship of the 
Cranches with, 156, 157, 161-63, 
164, 194, 214, 215; Memorial Serv- 
ice in King's Chapel, 368; Edward 
Cranch on, 368, 369; letter from, 
195. 

Buckle, Henry Thomas, 366. 

Bull, Ole, 89-91. 

Burlingame, E. L., 359. 

"Burlybones," 203. 

Burne-Jones, Sir Edward, 310. 

Cambridge, 278-305; social life in, 
278, 279; never such a place for 
bells, 284; Cranch's study in, 338, 
339, 364. 

Capri, 143; trip to, 146, 147. 

Carlyle, Thomas, 63. 

Carnival, the Roman, 124, 153, 154, 
231, 240. 

Cerrito, Francesca, 166, 167. 

Channing, William Henry, 44, 45, 75. . 
86-88, 248. 

Chester, England, 306, 307. 

Child, Lydia Maria, 89, 90. 

Christmas shopping, 373. 

Church, Frederic E., 242. 

Cincinnati Harmonic Society, 282. 

Civil Service Reform, 351-53. 

Clarke, Gardiner Hubbard, 237, 240. 

Clarke, James Freeman, 39-41; letters 
to, 34, 44. 

Claude Lorrain, 71. 

Cleveland, Grover, 351, 353. 

Coan, Titus Munson, 271. 

Coleman, Samuel, 346, 347. 

Coliseum, the, at Rome, 105, 106. 



390 



INDEX 



Columbus, Christopher, 103, 104. 

Conway, Moncure D., 308. 

Copley, John Singleton, 202. 

Coquelin, B. C, 322. 

Coram, Sir Thomas, 312. 

Correggio, 176, 217, 318. 

Cousin, Victor, 50. 

Cranch, Abigail Adams (Mrs. W. G. 
Eliot), 4, 31; letter to, 229. 

Cranch, Caroline Amelia, born, 175; 
an artist, 295, 300, 301, 308, 319; 
portrait of C. P. C, 347; portrait of 
John S. Dwight, 348. 

Cranch, Christopher (English), 288, 
289. 

Cranch, Christopher Pearse, birth, 3; 
boyhood, 3, 4; first steps in drawing 
arid versifying, 5, 6; ancestry, 6-17; 
enters Columbian College, 18; goes 
to Harvard Divinity School, 19; the 
day's work, 20; in Andover, Maine, 
21-24; in Richmond, Virginia, 24- 
27; Enosis, 29, 30; in St. Louis, 31 ; in 
Cincinnati and Peoria, 32; preaches 
in Louisville and edits Western 
Messenger, 36-39; judgment of him- 
self, 40, 42; in Boston, 47, 48; on 
Transcendentalism, 49-51 ; visits 
Brook Farm, 52, 53; a ventriloquist, 
52, 359; a devotee of music, 52, 77, 
78, 184, 222, 246, 273, 274, 294, 321, 
340, 351, 358, 360; personal appear- 
ance, 53; writes poem for two hun- 
dredth anniversary of Quincy,Mass., 
54, 55; sends poems to Emerson, 58, 

59, 63; takes to landscape painting, 

60, 66, 67, 70, 83, 89; suffers from 
trouble in head and brain, 66, 69, 
70; tries modelling in clay, 67; 
preaches at Fishkill-on-the-Hudson, 
72; becomes engaged to Elizabeth 
De Windt, 75, 76; thinks of leaving 
the ministry, 77, 79, 80, 82, 86; mar- 
riage, 83-85; interested in Social 
Reform, 88. 

First visit to Europe, 91-171; his 
journal at sea, 93-102; in Genoa, 
102-04; in Rome, 104-18; 122-26; 
night studies from life, 105, 107; 
birth of a son, 117; at Palestrina, 
119, 120; at Olevano, 121; at Naples, 



136-41; ascends Vesuvius, 136-38; 
goes to Pompeii, 139-41; in Sor- 
rento, 142-49; in Florence, 150-70; 
begins The Bird and the Bell, 156; 
friendship with the Brownings, 156- 
63. 

Back in New York, 172; drowning 
of Mrs. Cranch's mother, 173, 174 i 
birth of a daughter, 175; progress 
in art, 179, 183; translation from 
Heine, 184; correspondent of New 
York Express, 185; The Flower and 
the Bee, 185, 186; writes "Farewell 
to America" for Jenny Lind, 189; 
plans to revisit Europe, 198; settles 
down in Paris, 200; exhibits and 
sells pictures there, 201 ; correspond- 
ent of the New York Evening Post, 
202; visits Switzerland, 203-07, 
233, 234; back in Paris, 210; goes to 
London with Lowell, 212; son born 
in Paris, 214; The Last of the Hugger- 
muggers, 215, 218, 220; death of his 
father, 215; gets literary advice from 
W. W. Story, 220, 221; strange 
dream about his brother Edward, 
222; at Barbizon, 223-28; in Rome 
again, 234-42; makes a capillary 
reform, 239; in Venice, 245-47. 

His feeling toward slavery, 253; 
returns to New York, 254; criticises 
the Pre-Raphaelites, 255; death of 
his son George, 258, 259; entertains 
Curtis at "Mon Bijou," 259-61; 
silver wedding, 262, 263; Gridiron- 
ville, 266-69, 377; translates the 
jEneid, 271, 272; in Cambridge, 
276-305; sends a landscape to Em- 
erson, 280, 281; urges his brother 
Edward to publish, 283, 284; views 
as to the hereafter, 285, 286, 302, 
358, 365, 381; obtains old letters of 
his father and grandfather, 287, 288; 
writes libretto for the Cantata of 
America, 290, 293; The Bird and the 
Bell, 291; lone, 294; death of his 
son Quincy, 295, 296; takes part in 
Sunday afternoon meetings for 
liberals, 299; translates Eclogues of 
Virgil and some of Horace's Odes, 
300; keeps house in R. W. Gilder's 



INDEX 



391 



rooms, 301 ; at Magnolia, 303; poem 
to O. W. Holmes, 304. 

Third visit to Europe, 306; in 
London, 307-15; in Paris, 315-23, 
330-36; in Rome, 324; in Florence, 
325-27; in Venice, 327-29; in Milan, 
329; writes about dreams, 333, 334; 
returns to America, 336. 

His Cambridge study, 338, 339, 
364; his moods, 339, 340, 342; some 
characteristics, 339, 340, 341; his 
books, 341; some juvenile depravi- 
ties in art, 345, 346; portrait by 
Caroline Cranch, 347; meets Clinton 
Scollard, 348; his interest in Civil 
Service Reform and politics, 351-53; 
revisits Washington after twenty- 
three years, 353, 354; goes to As- 
bury Park, 362; reads poem at two 
hundred and fiftieth anniversary of 
First Church of Quincy, 364; essay 
on the Unconscious Life, 366, 367; 
delivers address at Browning Me- 
morial Service in King's Chapel, 368; 
celebrates seventy-seventh birthday, 
370; on Christmas shopping and 
giving, 373; failing health, 378, 379, 
380; death, 381; Curtis's tribute to, 
in the "Easy Chair," 383-85. 

Autobiography quoted, 3-7, 18, 
19, 40, 66, 104, 117, 119, 124, 142- 
53, 155, 157, 172, 175, 189, 200, 208, 
254, 278; his work as a poet, 54, 58, 
63, 156, 184, 185, 189, 191, 262, 270, 
275, 291, 292, 293, 298, 302, 315, 
334, 335, 338, 343, 349, 354, 356, 
359, 364, 371, 372; as an artist, 60, 
66, 67, 70, 83, 89, 105, 107, 179, 183, 
201, 221, 230, 232, 236, 255, 280, 281, 
317, 319, 345, 346, 359. 

Letters: to his father, 49; to his 
wife, 212, 232-42, 245; to Mrs. 
Brooks, 37, 39, 244, 318, 347; to 
Mrs. Eliot, 229; to Edward Cranch, 
80, 83, 91, 178, 190, 210, 222, 274, 
283-89, 293, 297, 300-03, 306, 333, 
346, 351-54, 358, 364-68, 372, 378; 
to Mrs. Scott, 269, 273, 298, 354, 
358, 362, 377; to Francis Boott, 
360; to C. T. Brooks, 349; to Mrs. 
Browning, 157; to James Freeman 



Clarke, 34, 44; to G. W. Curtis, 252, 
255, 275, 276, 292, 294, 296, 303, 
315, 336, 369; to Anna Dixwell, 357; 
to J. S. D wight, 21, 24, 56, 57, 68, 
70, 75, 79, 82, 84, 88-91, 251, 344; to 
R. W. Emerson, 58, 60, 63, 280; to 
O. B. Frothingham, 279; to O. W. 
Holmes, 350; to Catherine H. 
Myers, 32, 41, 74, 182; to Julia 
Myers, 35, 47, 55, 67, 77, 182; to 
Mrs. George L. Stearns, 184, 198, 
214. 

Cranch, Mrs. C. P., her Journal 
quoted, 106-15, 121, 170; drowning 
of her mother, 173, 174; Curtis's 
opinion of, 257; letters from Mar- 
garet Fuller, 142, 168; from Mrs. 
Browning, 158; from Mr. Cranch, 
212, 232-42, 245. See also De Windt, 
Elizabeth. 

Cranch, Edward P., brother of C. P. C, 
4,5, 15, 18, 19; advised to publish, 
283; visits Europe in his eighty-first 
year, 365; on Browning, 368, 369; 
golden wedding, 375, 376; letter to 
Mrs. Brooks, 282; letter to Mrs. 
Scott, 382; letters to C. P. C, 345, 
368, 379; letters from C. P. C. to, 
80, 83, 91, 178, 190, 210, 222, 274, 
283-89, 293, 297, 300-03, 306, 333, 
346, 351-54, 358, 364-68, 372, 378. 

Cranch, Elizabeth (Mrs. Rufus 
Dawes), 4, 244. 

Cranch, George William, born, 117; 
gets a lieutenant's commission, 258; 
death, 258, 259. 

Cranch, John, brother of C. P. C, 4, 
18, 19, 66, 365. 

Cranch, Leonora (Mrs. Scott), born, 
145; letters to, 269, 273, 298, 354, 
358, 362, 377. 

Cranch, Margaret, 4, 39, 45. See also 
Brooks, Mrs. Erastus. 

Cranch, Mary (Mrs. Richard Nor- 
ton), 3. 

Cranch, Quincy Adams, 276, 277; born 
in Paris, 214; killed on shipboard, 
295, 296. 

Cranch, Hon. Richard, grandfather of 
C. P. C., 8, 9. 21; letters of, 287, 
288. 



392 



INDEX 



Cranch, Richard, brother of C. P. C, 
3, 4; drowned, 5, 6. 

Cranch, Judge William, father of 
C. P. C., 6, 7, 9-17, 185; married to 
Ann Greenleaf, 12; letter to, 49; 
death, 215. 

Cranch, Mrs. William, 6, 7, 12, 17. 

Cranch, William, brother of C. P. C, 4. 

Cropsey, G. F., 145. 

Curtis, Burrill, 112, 113. 

Curtis, George William, goes to Eu- 
rope with Cranch, 91, 93, 110, 112, 
170, 177; one of the editors of Put- 
nam's Magazine, 191, 229; marriage, 
229; advice to literary aspirants, 
243; visits Cranch, 259-61; poems 
to, 315, 332, 343; portrait by Cum- 
min, 369; kept collection of photo- 
graphs of himself, 370; tribute to 
Cranch in the "Easy Chair," 383- 
85; letters to Mrs. Cranch, 163, 347, 
381; to Mrs. Scott, 380; to Cranch, 
127-35, 228, 242, 257, 258, 259, 261, 
265, 266, 270, 276, 289, 292, 297, 
305, 337, 342, 355, 361, 376; from 
Cranch, 252, 255, 275, 276, 292, 294, 
296, 303, 315, 336, 369. 

Curtis, Lt.-Col. Joseph Bridgham, 252. 

Cushman, Charlotte, 238, 239, 241. 

Darley, F. O. C, 73. 

Dawes, Rufus, 244. 

Dawes, Hon. Thomas, 11. 

De Windt, Elizabeth, 72, 73, 74, 76; 

marriage, 84. See also Cranch, Mrs. 

C. P. 
De Windt, John P., 72; homestead 

burned, 202, 203. 
De Windt, Mrs. John P., a grand- 
daughter of John Adams, 73, 74; 

drowned, 173. 
De Windt, Peter, 315. 
Dickinson, Lowes, R. A., 313. 
Dixwell, Anna, 326, 331; letter to, 

357. 
Doria, Andrea, 103, 104. 
Downing, A. J., 75, 84, 174; drowned, 

173. 
Dreams, 43, 58, 222, 306, 333. 
Dupont, M., 333. 
Duran, Carolus, 319. 



Duveneck, Frank, 325, 357, 360, 371. 

Dwight, John S., 20, 21, 79, 82, 
370; portrait painted by Caroline 
Cranch, 348; letter from, 247; let- 
ters to, 21, 24, 56, 57, 68, 70, 75, 79. 
82, 84, 88-91, 251, 344. 

Eclipse, an, of the moon, 227, 228. 

Eliot, George, 320, 321. 

Eliot, William Greenleaf, 19, 31; letter 

from, 272. 
Ellsler, Fanny, 167. 
Emerson, N. B., 271. 
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 41, 47, 51, 58, 

60, 61; Holmes's Life of, 350; letters 

from, 59, 61, 64, 281; letters to, 58, 

60, 63, 280. 
Everett, Prof. C. C, 299, 350. 

"Farewell to America," 189. 
Ferdinand II of Naples ("Bomba"), 

141. 
Fireworks at the Castle of San An- 

gelo, 117. 
Florence, 150-68; the Carnival, 153, 

154. 
Flower and the Bee, The, 185, 186. 
Forbes, Mrs. J. M., 281. 
Foundling Hospital, London, 311, 312. 
Frothingham, Octavius Brooks, 301; 

his Life of Theodore Parker, 279, 

280; letter from, 372; letter to, 279. 
Froude, J. A., 308. 
Fuller, Margaret, 61, 63, 280; death, 

173, 196; newspaper controversy 

about, 352; letters to Mrs. Cranch, 

142, 168. 
Furness, James, 46. 
Furness, William, 46. 

Garcia, Maria Felicita (Mme. Mali- 
bran), 133. 

Garibaldi, Giuseppe, 246, 247. 

Gay, Walter, 317, 320, 322. 

Gericke, Wilhelm, 351. 

German language, difficulties of, 216. 

Gesticulations of Italians, 155, 156. 

Gilder, Richard Watson, 301. 

Girandola, 117. 

Gluck, Christoph Wilibald von, 133, 
134. 



INDEX 



393 



Goldschmidt, Otto, 189. 

Grahn, Lucile, 167. 

Greeley, Horace, 254. 

Green, Colonel, 237. 

Greenleaf, Ann (Mrs. William Cranch), 

6, 7, 12, 17. 
Greenleaf, James, 5, 7. 
Greenleaf, John, 21. 
Greenleaf, Mary (Mrs. George Minot 

Dawes), 21. 
Greenleaf, Richard, 287. 
Greenough, Horatio, 152, 213. 
Greenough, John, 80. 
Gridironville, 266-69, 377, 
Grisi, Carlotta, 167. 
Griswold, C. C, 255. 
Grosvenor Gallery, London, 310. 
Grotto of San Francisco, near Amalfi, 

148. 
Guido's Aurora, 111. 

Hartmann, K. R. E. von, 366. 
Harvard College, two hundred and 

fiftieth anniversary, 355. 
Hawthorne, Julian, 352. 
Hedge, Rev. Frederick H., 29, 299, 

352. 
Heine, Heinrich, translation of his 

Fichtenbaum, 184. 
Hicks, Thomas, 73, 107, 124, 170, 171, 

242. 
Higginson, Col. T. W., 352. 
Hoffman, Charles Fenno, 75, 84. 
Holmes, John, 322, 323, 370. 
Holmes, Oliver Wendell, 355, 361; 

letter from, 304; poem to, by C. P. 

C, 304; letter to, 350. 
Hosmer, Harriet, 232. 
Houghton, H. O., 298. 
Hunt, William M., 313. 
Huntington, William H., 200, 317, 320. 

lone, 294. 

James, Henry, Jr., 328. 
James, Wilkinson, 258. 
James, William, 303, 366; letter to 
Cranch, 342. 

Keats, George, brother of John Keats, 
37, 38, 44. 



Keats, John, 164; his Endymion, 43; 
portrait of, 342; poem by C. P. C, 
343. 

Kemble, Fanny, 47. 

Kensett, John F., 107, 242. 

Kensington Museum, 308, 309. 

Kirby, Georgiana Bruce, 356; quoted, 
53. 

Knoop, Herr, a master of the violon- 
cello, 78. 

Kobboltozo, 231, 262. 

Lablache, Luigi, 163, 166. 

Lamartine, 163, 165, 166. 

Landor, Walter Savage, 164. 

Last of the Huggermuggers, The, 215, 
218, 220. 

Laugel, M. and Mme., 322. 

Leonardo, the Last Supper, 329. 

Letters, old family, 287. 

Lexington, Mass., 266-69, 377. 

Lind, Jenny, 127, 128, 166; Cranch 
writes "Farewell to America" for 
her, 189. 

London, a wonderfully interesting 
city, 307; museums and galleries, 
308, 309, 310; parks, 309; climate, 
309; Foundling Hospital, 311, 312; 
the Tower, 313, 314. 

Longfellow, Samuel, 381. 

Lowell, James Russell, 201, 202, 355; 
takes Cranch to London, 212, 214; 
his opinion of the confusion of Babel, 
216; fiftieth birthday, 264; letters 
from, 213, 215, 256, 257, 262, 264, 
270. 

Lowell, Walter, 209. 

Lucca, 193. 

Malibran, Mme., 133. 

Mann, Horace, 47. 

Martineau, Harriet, 63. 

Martineau, James, 375. 

Masaccio, frescoes by, 153. 

May, Edward H , 316, 317, 320, 338. 

Mazzini, Joseph, 170. 

McEntee, Jervis, 173. 

Mead, Edwin D., 364. 

Mendelssohn, Felix, death of, 128-30. 

Meudon, 316. 

Miller, William, 48. 



394 



INDEX 



Moccoletti, 126. 

"Mon Bijou," 259. 

Morse, Sydney H., 299. 

Motley, John Lothrop, 361. 

Munich, 178. 

Munkacsy, Mihaly, 310, 319, 330, 331. 

Myers, Catherine H., letters to, 32, 41, 

74, 182. 
Myers, Julia, letters to, 35, 41, 47, 55, 

67, 77, 182. 

Naples, 136-41; civil war in, 144, 145. 
National Gallery, London, 310, 314. 
Newspaper, morning, how to read, 

261. 
New York, 172, 183, 254 
Norton, Andrews, 49. 
Norton, Richard, 3. 

Offenbach, Jacques, 322. 
Olevano, 120, 121. 

Ormuzd and Ahriman, 349, 350, 355, 
367. 

Peestum, 147. 

Paine, John K., 294, 381. 

Palestrina, 119, 120. 

Paris, Cranch spends ten years in, 

200-53; Universal Exhibition (1855), 

201; the place for an artist, 210; 

Cranch visits again, 315-22. 
Parker, Theodore, 58, 291 n; Froth- 

ingham's Life of, 279, 280. 
Perkins, Charles C, 124, 239. 
Perkins, James Handasyde, 32, 44. 
Pickwick Papers, 39. 
Pius IX, Pope, 107, 108, 142, 187. 
Planchette, a liar, 261. 
Poker, 359. 
Pompeii, 139-41. 
Poor, John A., 69. 
Porter, Peter A., 175. 
Powers, Hiram, 67, 150, 152. 
Preston, Mary (Mrs. George L. 

Stearns), 27-30. 
Putnam's Magazine, 191. 
Puvis de Chavannes, Pierre Cecile, 

335. 

Rachel, Elisa, 167, 168. 
Retzsch, Moritz, 217. 



Revolution, European (1848), 134, 135. 

Rhodes, Christopher, 31. 

Ripley, George, 311. 

Rome, 104-18, 122, 186-89, 324; the 
Carnival, 153, 154, 231, 240; theatri- 
cals by the Story s and friends, 188; 
the only place to live in, 232. 

Rubinstein, Anton, 273, 274. 

Russell, Prof. W. C, 358, 359. 

Saint-Leon, M., 166, 167. 

St. Peter's, Rome, 106, 107. 

Salvini, Tommaso, 231, 241. 

San Marco, Church of, Venice, 328, 
329. 

Sargent, John T., 291. 

Satan, 281, 349, 354. 

Scherer, Edward, 320, 321. 

Schumann, Clara, 249. 

Scollard, Clinton, sonnet to Cranch, 
348, 349. 

Scott, Mrs. Leonora Cranch. See 
Cranch, Leonora. 

Shaw, Rev. John, 9. 

Sheffield, Massachusetts, 173, 178, 179. 

Slavery, 252, 253. 

Sorrento, 142-49; a plantation of 
orange and lemon trees, 142. 

Stearns, Major George L., 27, 28. 

Stearns, Mrs. George L., 27-30, 370, 
381; letters to, 184, 198, 214. 

Stearns, Rev. Mr., of Hingham, 57 

Stedman, Edmund Clarence, 356. 

Stone, Rev. Thomas T., 69, 70. 

Story, William Wetmore, 169, 170, 
214; makes generous offer to 
Cranch, 181; private theatricals in 
Rome, 188; death of his son Joseph, 
208, 209; writes law books, 219; 
gives literary advice to Cranch, 220, 
221 ; occupies Barberini Palace, 234, 
238; Cranch's opinion of his statues, 
235; reads one of his own poems, 
239; letters from, 175, 180, 186, 192, 
208, 211, 218, 220, 231. 

Street-cries in Italy, 154, 155. 

Sturgis, Russell, 201, 202; entertains 
Cranch in London, 213, 310. 

Sunday Afternoon Club, 299, 366. 

Sunsets, American, 172, 175. 

Swift, Lindsay, 49; quoted, 52. 



INDEX 



395 



Taylor, Bayard, 189. 
Taylor, Henry, 164, 165. 
Taylor, Jeremy, 209. 
Terry, Luther, 110, 111. 
Tessero-Guidone, Signora, 327. 
Thackeray, William Makepeace, 201, 

202; lectures in America, 219. 
Thayer, Alexander W., 249, 250, 329. 
Thoreau, Henry D., 60. 
Titian, paintings by, at Dresden, 217; 

the Entombment, 318. 
Tivoli, 120. 

Transcendentalism, 49-51. 
Turner, J. M. W., 157, 314, 315. 
Twain, Mark, 344. 

Vannier, Madame, inn-keeper at 

Barbizon, 224-28. 
Vatican, the, 108, 109, 125. 



Vaughan, John C, 44, 45. 

Vesuvius, 136-38, 145. 

Vienna, 177, 178. 

Villa Borghese, 123. 

Villa di Angelis, Sorrento, 142, 143. 

Washington city, revisited, 353, 354. 

Watch, (Tranches' dog, 4. 

Webster, Noah, 12. 

Weiss, John, 299. 

Western Messenger, The, 36-38. 

Whitney, Rev. George, 56. 

Whittier, John G., Atlantic dinner to, 

298. 
Women, in Italy, 146, 193. 
Woolson, Constance Fenimore, 356; 

letter to Mr. Boott, 357. 

Ziem, Felix, 208, 244, 247. 



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